Beka's cat
by Shang it
Summary: Rosto gets his ticklers on a spell to take him to the divine realms. He drags Beka along, but things don't go as planned. With the help of a curious dragon, the pair returns to Corus...200 years beyond their time! AU, kinda. Rated a STRONG T.
1. Midsummer Madness

If you've been reading my journal, you already know who I am. My name is Rebeka Cooper. I'm a puppy training to be a Dog in Provost's Guard. I am sane enough—excepting the fact that I choose to be a Dog. I am not mad. This tale is _TRUE_. I met my six-times great grandson.

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Like most of my troubles lately, this "adventure" started with Rosto the Piper, now known as the Rogue. One afternoon, Pounce and I were minding our own business, wandering through Cesspool. It was my day off, and I was determined to avoid trouble. Then trouble found me.

I was buying an apple when I saw Rosto swaggering in my direction. His gait is still powerful and smooth. Since he became the Rogue, there's more arrogance in the way he holds himself. I scowled. I didn't want to play Dog and Rusher right then.

"Beka, my love, I have a surprise for you." He leaned over to plant a kiss on my cheek, but stopped when he caught the look in my eyes. I'd nap-tap him then and there, and he knew it. His pet voice is too sickly sweet for my tastes.

"It's something every Dog should have." He purred.

I crossed my arms and looked at him warily. "Show it to Goodwin and Tunstall. They're the Dogs around here. I'm just a puppy." I reminded him.

"Oh, they'd make you a Dog if you had this, I'm certain." Something about the way he said it caught my attention. I knew Rosto was baiting me, and he's good at it. However, there was something more. Like Tunstall once said, the Rogue looked like a rat with cheese in his whiskers.

"Lead on then." I replied gruffly. I'm not a glory hound, but Dog work is what I do.

Pounce took one moment to study the Rogue, and then turned tail for home. "_You want to follow the lunatic, do it by yourself. I'm going to borrow some of the kitten's cream. Aniki is overfeeding them." _

Rosto led me to Berryman's offices. I scowled. This meant Berryman was working with the Rogue. People in this city just couldn't stay straight.

As we entered, I found that Berryman's office was clouded with smoke. I coughed and covered my mouth. I hadn't seen anything unusual outside, which meant he had illusions in place. My tripes warned me this wasn't going to end well.

Berryman was somewhere in the middle of the room. He'd tied a piece of cloth over his mouth to stop the smoke from getting into his lungs. I lifted the hem of my shirt to cover my own mouth and nose.

"Here." The mage's voice was muffled from the cloth. "It took near three opals to generate enough power, but I've got it!" He had a boy's enthusiasm for new toys.

I twiddled my baton nervously. "_What_ did you get?" I asked sharply.

Berryman peered down at me, surprised. He hadn't even noticed I was there. "It's an experiment. Today is Midsummer, the day when the paths of the Divine and mortal realms are the easiest to cross. If my calculations are correct, I'll be able to create a working, useable gate to the realms of the gods!"

I gasped in horror. Unfortunately, I also inhaled a good deal of smoke. As I spluttered, Rosto pounded me on the back. "Nothing serious." He assured me. "I want to see what's on the other side. You should come along. Mithros could use a lecture on moral codes." He added.

My eyes watered, and it was hard to convey disgust through the cloud of smoke. "Impossible." I coughed. "This isn't the work of an everyday mage. Masters have been killed over les—

"Ah puppy, but I have a book, you see! Our Rosto got his ticklers on one of the ancient texts used to lock the immortals away in the divine realms. They built a gate of sorts, and now I'm going open that gate so the Rogue can have his vacation." The Berryman beamed with pride.

Something behind him sparked and flashed. "Almost noon." He muttered, turning back to the experiments. He'd set up a doorframe in the middle of the room, and he began tossing liquids through it as he chanted. My bones creaked, I could swear I felt the air tingling, and I saw Rosto shiver. I looked around; the door had sucked up all the smoke in the room.

As I peered through the frame, I caught a glimpse of impossibly green hills, soft blue skies, and trees unlike any I'd ever seen. Someone pushed me, and I fell.

My last thought was that of regret. It was a pity I was going to die before having a chance to kill Rosto myself.


	2. Curiosity killed the Cove

A/N okay, so this beka is a little OOC. But you would be too, if you thought you'd just died...

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I hit soft ground. Trembling, I rose to my feet and looked around. Rosto had collapsed into a heap beside me. I kicked him…to make sure he was alive, of course. He grunted and untangled himself. My body hurt from head to toe, I felt like I'd taken on half the Rogue court and lost.

Our surroundings were…green. I'd never traveled outside Corus, but my mama told me stories about forests and open fields. It was beautiful.

"We're not in Corus anymore." Rosto deadpanned.

"Is that something to be pleased about? I _like_ Corus." I complained.

"Where's your sense of adventure, Puppy?" He nudged me playfully.

"I left it in Berryman's office, along with my patience." I muttered. I glared at him, and my eyes were icy. He stepped back, chastised.

Something swooped over us and I cringed. It was far too large to be a pigeon. I squinted, wondering if the fall had damaged my skull. The bird had to be fifty feet, with scales like a lizard. It was beautiful and sparkly, like a fire opal. I sighed. Mayhap Rosto had just sent us to the peaceful realms instead.

The scaly bird dove down to land near us. I stifled a yell. Rosto had a knife in each of his hands and I had my baton held ready. All our weapons looked pathetic against this creature.

The creature was pearly and pale. My first thought was his scales would fetch a pretty penny on the market.

_**I am Songwind, and you mortals are trespassing. **_His voice thundered through my nob, without touching my ears. Ma said only Gods and immortals could do that.

_No, I'm Beka and he's the idiot that brought me here._ I thought irritably. Something about still being alive made me feel pert. Songwind opened his jaws and roared. I shrank back, praying to Mithros and Goddess to get me out of this mess.

After several fearful moments, Songwind closed his fearsome mouth. _**Humor is not something one finds often in the Divine realms. **_He informed us.

Rosto stepped forward bravely. "So then, we _are_ in the divine realms?" He smirked like a pleased cat.

Songwind eyed the Rogue appraisingly. _**No. You're in Dragon territory, far superior to the realms of the Gods. **_He blinked. _**You stink of rotten food and mortality. Tell me, how did you get here?**_

Rosto's mouth closed like a greedy clam, but I stepped forward. Death had a way of curing my shyness. I reported to him as I would to my Dogs. "It was a spell, Master Songwind. A mage preformed it on Midsummer. He was trying to get us to the Divine realms. I think it worked." I rubbed my head. It hurt something fierce.

Songwind extended a talon. _**Part**__** of it worked**_. He corrected gravely. _**You are not the same as you were. When you traveled, every one of your molecules dissolved and reformed. I am sorry to say that they did not reform the way they were supposed to. Look at your hands, mortal.**_

I glanced down. My fingers had felt tingly, but now they were starting to turn blue.

_**You see? Your arteries didn't align correctly, soon something will leak, and your organs will flood. You have several hours before the real pain begins. You'll be lucky if the Black God can find you here. **_

I nodded numbly. So I would not live to become a dog. I would never see Tunstall or Goodwin again. All I had were a few hours left with Rosto and Songwind.

Songwind sniffed me, his nostrils flared. _**You are an intriguing little human. What a pity. **_

"Is there nothing you can do to help us, Master Songwind? Perhaps the tales are inaccurate, but aren't you a Dragon?" Rosto had tucked his knives away, and he studied the dragon intently, memorizing every inch of the creature's enormous frame.

_**Of course I could fix you. Dragons possess a profound understanding of human physiology as well as a natural aptitude for healing magic. However, it would be a relatively long process, and I would gain nothing from the experience.**_

"Nothing?" Rosto repeated. He studied his nails and looked overly casual. "How many dragons can claim they remade a mortal, Master Songwind? Wouldn't it be a direct challenge to Mithros and the Goddess, who created the first mortals so long ago?"

The dragon cocked his head thoughtfully. _**You are trying to manipulate me by appealing to my scientific curiosity and competitive nature. **_He sounded amused.

"I figured with us being about to die an' all…" Rosto shrugged gracefully.

Songwind wrapped his neck around us and back. _**Much work to do. Would have to do it in the Divine realms where no other dragons could interfere. **_He seemed to be muttering to himself. _**Fun, no doubt. Dangerous, time consuming…DONE!**_

Something yanked me up and into the sky. Air whooshed around me and I felt as light as a feather. Dreamily, I wondered exactly how long it would take.

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When I awoke, I felt like someone had turned my body into pudding. Perhaps Songwind also had a sense of humor.

_**Beka Cooper. Puppy, you took long enough. **_Songwind peered down at me. I rubbed my eyes and tried to stand. We were in a cave, and torchlight flickered over the pink walls. I shivered. The earth reminded me strongly of the mines.

"What will happen to us now?" I asked.

Songwind swung his head quickly from side to side. _**Mithros and Goddess discovered my experiment shortly after I began. They insisted that I return you to the mortal realms where you belong. I agreed, but I neglected to mention **__**when**__**. You are well again, Ms. Cooper. Your friend is well as well.**_

Rosto was busy flexing his muscles and prodding his skin, taking an inventory of his body. I tucked away a smile. I treasured moments like this, when he was too busy being human to act like a proper Rogue.

"You're sending us home? To Corus?"

_**Is that your home?**_ He asked.

I nodded vigorously.

_**Very well. It was interesting, you know, to see what humans are made of. **_


	3. The Swagger of a Rogue

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed, sorry this update took so long. **

Considering my last two journeys, the trip back to Corus was very pleasant. Songwind dropped us off somewhere on the edges of Corus, outside the city gates. I frowned as my eyes followed the crowd. Something was different. Mayhap it was the way people moved, or the snatches of conversation I overheard. But my hunkerbones were bristling, ready.

We followed the masses. Mots and coves jostled against each other in their usual quick manner. We were in the Common, and ahead of us lay the Temple district. Neither district was familiar, so I stuck close to Rosto. I had no choice but to trust him (the thought made my tripes clench).

I still wore my puppy uniform, but no one paid me the slightest nod. I only hoped to find a dust spinner. I needed information, and I had plenty of interesting grit from the divine realms.

The Temple district was teeming with even more folk. I'd never before imagined the city was this large. As busy as it was, something was missing. I studied the mots we passed. Each wore a dress and petticoats. I didn't see any exceptions. My nob began racing, trying to make the pieces fit together. I reasoned, mayhap I was too isolated in the Lower City. I wasn't used to upper city life. Folk around me were plumper than I remembered, a bit cleaner too.

Rosto nudged me. "Something's amiss. The entrance isn't the same. I was here the day before Midsummer, and the gates were several times smaller. They've also added gold trim. That was NOT there when we left." He was uncharacteristically tense.

But he was also right. As we passed the royal gates, I realized how much they'd changed. Songwind had said his spells would take a long time…

"How long do you think it took Songwind to put us back together?" I asked nervously.

Rosto cast a slow, exaggerated glance around the crowd. "I don't know puppy, but I think we'd better find out soon." His eyes found a target. "Watch and learn. This is something the Dogs will never teach you." Slowly, his mannerisms changed. His smooth swagger became choppy, unstable. He stumbled, almost tripping over his own feet. Anyone watching would believe he was drunk.

Rosto staggered into a young merchant. "Yersh…yesh…suugot…the time? Wha…what day izz this?" The merchant cove hastily pushed Rosto away. Though not before Rosto tucked away the cove's purse. "Taaa…thanks to you…yer…

The merchant was already gone. Rosto straightened. "Don't scowl, my little pup, you tried the same with me once." He flashed me a grin before he dug through the purse. Rosto held up a large, silver noble—quite a catch. The insignia was for King Roald of Conte. Rosto's fair skin went a shade more pale. We must have been gone for years.

At least we were still in a period of Conte rule. I considered the information good news, in a small way. It meant Tortall hadn't fallen to any of its neighbors while we were gone, and there hadn't been any lasting civil wars.

But, **WHEN** were we? How long did Songwind's spell take? King Roger was still young when we left—but now, a Conte named Roald ruled. I wondered what had happened since our "vacation." What did Berryman tell our friends? What happened to the Rogue while Rosto was gone? How did Aniki handle our disappearance? I hoped Goodwin hadn't cracked too many birdie nobs looking for me.

Rosto was talking again. "Cooper, you know I love the way you look in any sort of attire. Even when—_especially_ when—it includes a mere breast band and breeches." He narrowly escaped my swing. "But I think we'd better find you some new outfits. You don't quite…blend."

"I noticed." I replied dryly. I forgot my anger as I considered the situation. "I never realized how many mots wear dresses nowadays."

"Whenever that is." Rosto muttered darkly. "Choose now. We can dress you up like a proper mot, or go the cheaper route and buy something to hide your peaches."

I blushed scarlet. My peaches weren't _that_ noticeable, but anyone with more brains than a scut could figure out why there were two lumps under my shirt.

"Buy some linen to bind my chest. I'd rather like to stay mobile." A dress would be a hindrance in a fight.

So Rosto used his stolen coin to buy linen. The seamstress looked at him oddly when he made his purchase, but she kept her gob shut. I found a privy to change in, and I took my time wrapping the cloth. If it was too tight, I could very well faint. That would also hinder me in a fight.

I emerged, and Rosto's eyes raked over me. "Yer face is still too soft to be a lad's, but it'll have to do."

I scowled. "You just wait 'til we get back to Jane Street." I promised. It was an empty threat. I didn't even know if the kennel was still there. The thought made my throat catch. When I thought Rosto brought us to the Peaceful realms, at least it was over. Now, we were alive outside our time, our friends must have grown old without us. My brothers and sisters grew up without me. I blinked back tears.

"I was thinking of stopping by the court of the Rogue first." He mentioned quietly. I shot him an icy stare.

"I need to know who today's players are." He explained. Rosto had a point, damn him. The first rule of the field: know your territory. That meant knowing who had power, and who didn't.

I walked woodenly through the streets, squirming in my modified uniform. The linens itched and squeezed uncomfortably. I still kept one hand curled around my baton. I noticed Rosto had his hands halfway tucked into his sleeves.

As I scanned the streets, a familiar black bundle strutted my way. "Pounce!" I leaned over and scooped him up into my arms as he snarled a dozen cat threats.

'_I am not THAT kind of cat! I eat curses for breakfast, cracknob, and I'll have you know—_

"The little tom's still alive? Praise the horse lords, we can't have landed more than a generation ahead." Rosto tucked a finger under Pounce's chin as the cat protested loudly. "Not a single gray hair." He murmured. "All is not lost, Copper." His grin returned.

"Then how do you explain the gates? The dresses? I'm not buying your theory, Piper. This is Corus, but this isn't OUR Corus, mark my words."

"Faithful?" A cove interrupted my speech. The lad was stocky, with copper hair and violet eyes. He stared at me warily, as if ready to rescue Pounce. I nodded politely, but held on to my cat. Rosto stood protectively over my shoulder. I shivered. Even though I wasn't facing him, Rosto's presence flooded my senses.

"He's my cat." I explained to the boy. "Don't let the moaning fool you, it's just his nature."

"No, sirrah, I'm afraid you are mistaken. That is most certainly my cat, and you _will_ release him." The boy's tone was firm, but not unkind. He spoke like a noble. I noticed how similar his eyes were to Pounce's. I stared at him, confused. Did Pounce have a second family he never told me about? While I was gone, did he find someone new to live with? The thice-blasted cat riggled out of my grasp and landed neatly in front me.

'_I am nobody's pet! Beka, what in Mithros's name are you doing here?'_ He demanded. (Later, I realized how odd it was for a cat to speak of Mithros).

"You know him?" The boy asked. My jaw unhinged.

"You understand him?" I asked, confounded.

"_YOU _understand him?" The boy repeated. Rosto eyed us both as if we were mad.

'_Yes, aren't you both such clever little two leggers?'_ Pounce meowed. He flicked a fly away from his ear and studied me thoughtfully. _'I was sent to help both of you, though not at the same time. Beka, this is not your age.'_

I looked down at my cat, trying to organize my thoughts. "Pounce, I don't even know what age this is." I replied heavily. "There was this experiment last midsummer—

"Somewhat troubling you, Alan?" The newcomer was a tall man, very lean, with sparkling hazel eyes. The way he approached reminded me of Rosto. He walked with the swagger of a Rogue.


	4. A Game of Dog and Rat

Rosto stepped in front of me protectively. In a different time, I might have been flattered. "Listen, we're new'uns to the city. My friend here mistook the cat for his own. We'll be on our way." Rosto tugged my sleeve, motioning that it was high time we disappear.

"New folk, eh? Well, if you're looking for a welcoming committee, try the Dancing Dove. Friendliest folk you'll meet on this side of Corus. I'll even buy you a drink." His white teeth flashed in a grin. That was a bad omen. Common Rushers of his age rarely had a full set of pearlies.

"We've got some business that needs tending to." I said vaguely. "Forgive our haste, but we're long overdue at home." It was true, and Mama always said the best lies have a seed of truth.

"An' here I was, getting the impression yer new to Corus." The man's hazel eyes were friendly, but too sharp for my tastes. I blushed, clapped my gob shut. I wasn't much of a liar.

"Cooper can be a little slow to the head." Rosto replied easily. "He meant to say, the quicker we get our business done, the quicker we can get home."

"Cooper? Interesting name. Where'd you say you were from?" The tall man asked.

"Odds bobs, George, leave 'em alone. Faithful knows the shorter one; I don't think you can get a better reference than that." The copper-haired lad looked cross.

"An' who're you calling short?" Rosto quipped, nodding his head at the boy's own stature. Copper-nob turned scarlet, but said nothing. I could infer the little cove had a temper. The red-nolls always do.

"Ye'd best keep a polite tongue in yer head; we players are particular about manners." There was a warning in George's voice.

Rosto nodded respectfully. "We'll be seeing you, then."

"Perhaps sooner than you think." The hazel eyed cove retorted.

Rosto steered me through the crowd, far away from our newest acquaintances. "What about Pounce?" I whispered.

"Your cat can take care of himself. It's us I'm worried about. The taller one, we'll see him again, I'm sure."

I bit my lip. I'd never told Rosto that I understood Pounce's talk. He'd find it odd; he'd think I was cracked. I couldn't tell him what Pounce had started to say. We were in "the wrong age."

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We found the Dancing Dove a while later, purely by chance. We were looking for our old home, the building where we rented our respective apartments. Instead of an inn, there was a tavern with a big sign. I'll give you two guesses what it said—and the first one don't count. The paint read, "The Dancing Dove."

"I told you it'd make a good tavern." Rosto whispered. I elbowed him, as I'd seen Goodwin poke Tunstall.

"Are you reconsidering that drink?" I asked bitterly, raising an eyebrow.

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Alann's POV

Beka and her companion has seemed…odd. The girl was dressed like a boy, she must have had her chest bound—and she thought she owned Faithful. Moreover, she could talk to the cat, and Faithful talked _back_!

"So, how 'faithful' are you, cat?" George asked wryly.

Faithful meowed, insulted. _'You two leggers and your ideas about ownership...'_ He miffed.

"I don't like the tall one." George said thoughtfully. "Looks like trouble."

"He looks like _you_." Alanna corrected. She titled her head thoughtfully. "There's something about the way you _move_…this…_air_ you have…"

"Keep talking, lass." George's voice had gone deep and slightly throaty.

Alanna blushed and jumped like a rabbit. "George! Focus! The Scanran man and his companion; they look like trouble. What are you and the court going to do about it?"

"What we always do." George replied gravely. "Watch and wait until they slip up. Then," he nodded respectfully at Faithful. "Then, we pounce."

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Beka's POV

Rosto strolled into the tavern, friendly and unthreatening. I wondered how a man could posses so many different methods of movement. One moment, he's a king; the next, he's the most unassuming cove in lower city. I shook my head and followed. People don't notice me unless I've got a case between my teeth or a rat in my hobbles.

The gixie behind the counter gave Rosto a suggestive, lingering glance before turning to get his drink. I rolled my eyes. She wasn't his type, she was far too obvious, and he seemed content with Aniki.

He'd ordered me barley water, and he passed me the mug with a grin. No doubt he was thinking of the first time we met. Excepting the new scar on his cheek, he looks the same as he did that night.

**(a/n: flashback/quoting canon)** _"Early twenties, five feet, ten inches, slim, muscled. Sideways forked scar, left eyebrow. Hair very fair, eyes black, skin pale. He's never worked hard labor, not with that skin. Long nose, full lower lip, thin upper. High cheek bones, thin cheeks. Very striking. Blade scars on the hands. Carries a purse and his belt knife in sight. Knife at the back collar, one inside both forearms, knives over each kidney, boot knives." _

Now I know he's also got a buckle knife. I smiled to myself, and Rosto noticed my face soften. "Something amusing you, Cooper?" He asked. A cove across from us overheard Rosto's comment.

"A Cooper?" The cove studied my face intently. "The Rogue din't mention 'e had relatives visitin'."

I struggled to understand what he'd just said. This was the second time someone had reacted oddly to my name. The hazel-eyed man—George—said it was interesting. I closed my eyes as I realized the problem. I had the same surname as the current Rogue. I rubbed my nob and took a big gulp of barely water, wishing Rosto had gotten me something stronger.

I opened my eyes and shot Rosto a look, trying to convey that he was no longer a king. Rosto shrugged, unperturbed.

"This Cooper isn't from around here." Rosto clapped me on the shoulder cavalierly. "We've come in from Scanra, on business. We won't be here long, Gods willing." He explained.

The curious cove frowned and turned back to his ale. We ate dinner peacefully, in silence. Both Rosto and I were busy memorizing the territory.

The patrons hushed as George flowed into the room. His copper-nobbed friend was nowhere in sight; Pounce was gone too. George's eyes swept across the room and landed on our table, where Rosto promptly lifted his drink in salute. We now knew who had power in the area. George's eyes darted to several players in the room, each nodded minutely. I slowly moved my baton to an accessible position on my lap.

He walked over and sat down next to us; and the slow-eyed gixie at the bar brought him a drink. He fiddled with it, waiting for conversation. The silence stretched, I felt my wretched shyness take over.

"We seem to be a bit lost." Rosto broke the silence coolly. "We were hoping mayhap you could get us up to date on local history."

George tapped the bridge of nose thoughtfully. I stared. Without the nose, he'd be considered handsome, though its size wasn't what caught my attention. It was the indefinable familiarity of the nose. Did Rosto sire any children before we left? I immediately thought of Aniki. She hadn't _seemed _pregnant when I saw her last, but George had her skin tone and similar hair.

"You'll have to be a wee bit more specific." George answered slowly. "I—

I shoved George out of his seat as a knife came flying across the room. While he and Rosto were busy measuring each other, I had noticed a new player enter the room. The mumper was poorly dressed, filthy, his hair hung in matted strands across his face. His eyes were bloodshot, and the way he moved indicated he'd been drinking hotblood wine.

Others in the court had ignored him—or at least, they hadn't perceived him as a threat. The knife he'd thrown was a belt knife, and the only one visible on his person (generally, belt knives are difficult to throw with accuracy). He snarled as he realized I'd thwarted his plan; he turned tail and ran out the door. Someone had the wits to swing at him, but they missed.

Rosto shot me a look. "Puppy…

"Don't say it." I hissed, annoyed. I leapt out of my seat and ran, legs pumping. It was late afternoon; the sun was just starting to set. The failed assassin was easy enough to track; he made a ripple in the crowd as he pushed through them. I swung my baton at anyone who got in my way. He ran down an ally and I followed. This wasn't my territory; I couldn't plan how to corner this one. It was a pure, simple game of Dog and Rat. I inhaled, caught the scent of hotblood and willed my legs to go faster. I jumped a wall, only to find the scut waiting for me on the other side. He swung his fist hard and caught the side of my face.

I snarled, more surprised than hurt. I moved in for a nap tap, but he dodged. He lunged at my middle and my back slammed into the wall I'd just jumped. I yelled as the breath left me, though that did little to help. I grabbed his shoulders and jammed my knee between his legs.

He cursed and fell to the ground. I smacked his ankle before flipping him over and hobbling him quickly. My breath came in short gasps; the accursed linen around my peaches made it more difficult to breathe. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a figure coming over the wall; I scrambled backwards and held my baton ready.

It was the curious cove from the Dancing Dove. He looked at the mumper and whistled. I tucked a stray strand of hair behind me ears and watched him warily.

"Provost's own men couldn'ta done better." He breathed.

I blushed. "A full dog would've cornered him in half the time." I said modestly.

"A Dog?" He asked blankly. I looked back at him with equal confusion; was there any law left in the lower city?

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Together, the player and I dragged the Rat back to the Dancing Dove. I found out my assistant a name—Blasé. He appeared a year or two older than I, with the dark skin of a Bazhir and bright green eyes. _Very_ striking. I stole a glance or two at his profile as we walked; his nose was perfectly normal and he had stubble growing in his chin. The stubble shadowed his cheeks, highlighting the angles of his face. It was oddly eye-catching. I thought it unfortunate he believed I was a boy.

Blasé showed me a way around the wall, back to the main streets and the lower city. My bruises began to ache, but I wasn't about to see a healer. All the bruises were on my back; and I couldn't very well show those without taking off my shirt.

Rosto and George stood outside the doors of the Dancing Dove. Both had their arms folded impatiently, though their bodies were loose and ready for movement. I blinked and shook my head. I felt as though I was drunk and my vision was splitting.

As we approached, Blasé explained, "They made a bet. One copper to whether you'd catch the scum or not."

I look reprovingly at Rosto. "You don't have the coin to back that bet." I told him.

He grinned. "Now I do." He held out his hand and George obligingly produced the coin from thin air. I've seen that trick before.

The thrill of the chase was fading, my energy was dropping fast. When the mumper had slammed me against the wall, I'd hit the back of my nob as well. Blood dripped off my temple where he'd punched me. I hadn't realized how bad my injuries were. It felt like I was using this body for the first time. I suppose I was. Players came forward to take my rat, and I was in no mood to argue. He needed to be put in the proper cage, but I didn't know where that was.

I tripped and almost fell, weaving on my feet. Rosto stepped in close and held my shoulders, steadying me. I looked up into his dark eyes, trying to focus. "Cooper…" he said cautiously.

I grinned like a looby at his obvious concern. "I'm alive; Master the Piper, no thanks to you." I added grimly, pushing him away. I saw a flash of hurt in his eyes, but I didn't care. It was true. I stole a look back at Blasé. He seemed concerned about me, and I was unusually flattered.

"Bek—Cooper, you need to see a healer, you're acting like a jinglenob." Rosto turned to George. "I hate to be asking favors from a cove I barely know, but I don't see any other choice. Do you know of any healers around this area? Preferably a mot with closed lips."

George eyed me, and I did my best to stand straight. We couldn't afford a healer, in more ways than one. "I'm fine." I mumbled, but no one listened.

"Keep the rat alive until I get back." George ordered. Blasé nodded, his face unreadable. He disappeared as George turned to Rosto and me. "I think I understand." His gaze flicked to my chest and back up. "And I think I know just the person you need."


	5. The Future of Fishpuppy

By the end of our short trip, Rosto had lost patience with me. I could walk well enough, but—according to Rosto—I wobbled like a midden hen. Several blocks into the journey, he picked me up from behind the knees and placed his other arm around my shoulders. I had no choice but to wrap my flappers around his neck and rest my good cheek against his shoulder. If I'd had the breath to curse him, I would have. All I wanted to do was take a nap; but whenever my eyes started to close, he'd manage to pinch me somehow.

George led us to Street of the Willows; a road I'd never seen before. The homes were much nicer than anything on Mutt Piddle; even the walls had a soft feeling to them. George opened the gates to one of the houses, and Rosto carried me through.

The healer was clearly related to George. They were of a height, and she shared the same glims as the Rogue. She also held herself like a woman capable of command. Something about her reminded me of my Mama. She took one look at me and motioned for Rosto to set me down.

"What happened?" She asked gently.

"Was fetching a Rat drunk on hotblood. I had to hop a wall, but the poxen bugnob was waiting for me. He tried to douse me, so I hit him in the fanfare, but not a'fore he clocked my nob and slammed me against the scale. I managed to hobble him; _meant_ to take 'im to the cages, but Blasé caught up and—

"In Common, please." She interrupted. I looked at her, befuddled.

"Cooper was chasing a cove who tried to kill George, and the scummer got in a lucky punch to her noll and bruised her back. I'm afraid she's got a concussion, she hasn't been walking straight and she's on the verge of falling asleep." Rosto translated.

The translation didn't seem to help much. "And you brought her to me because…

"Cause we're trying to keep it quiet that she's a she. We're new to town, but we noticed that the mots around here stick to dresses and don't look ready to fend off so much as a mean albatross. Cooper's not that kind of mot, so we thought it'd be better to dress her as a cove." Rosto explained, matter-of-factly.

The healer shook her head, mulling over the information. "All right." She answered slowly. "Men outside while I treat…Cooper?"

"Yes, ma'am." I answered.

"Interesting name." She replied. I sighed helplessly. She placed a gentle hand under my chin, forcing my eyes up to hers. "Mithros and Goddess!" She whispered. "It's like seeing a ghost."

"People say that sometimes, about me glims. Don't worry ma'am, you'll get used to it." I tried to step away, and promptly fell backwards into Rosto. He caught me and held me up by my underarms, and I felt like Fishpuppy all over again. Weak and useless.

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The healer's name was Mrs. Cooper, but she told me to call her Eleni. I wasn't in the mood to argue; I drank the tea she offered and I didn't struggle when she worked her magic. I felt something cool and tingling stretch across my nob, and I shivered. The cut on my face was gently cleaned and she put some balm on my shoulders. I felt like a spoiled puppy. The healers here were much better than they used to be. She lent me a cot and I dozed off.

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Omniscient POV

"The lass will sleep for a few hours now. While she rests, I think you'd better tell me what's been going on in your court, my son."

Rosto didn't seem the least bit surprised that Eleni was George's mother. George grimaced; Rosto was clever enough to provide some dangerous competition. The handsome Scanran was several years older than George, and probably wiser for it. George only hoped he wouldn't have to kill the man.

George raised an eyebrow and glanced at the Piper. "I think you can answer that question far better than I." George said.

Rosto squirmed, almost imperceptibly. He flicked back a piece of his white-blond hair, and his hands rested close to the knives on his kidneys. He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment before answering. "We're a bit lost. You'll think I'm a jinglenob for telling you this, but a mage of mine created a spell to bring us to the divine realms. Long story short, we wound up here instead. We think the journey took a bit longer than planned. The city is…different from the way we remember it. When we first returned, Beka saw her cat in the streets, but now the tom belongs to your cityman."

"Beka? Beka Cooper?" Eleni repeated. Her eyes were wide. George's brow furrowed, the name was familiar.

Rosto frowned. "Are you her relatives, after all?" He asked. "I was under the impression her family lived with Provost."

"We're…we're not _relatives_…not exactly." Eleni stumbled over her words. "Excuse me." She disappeared, walking briskly over to the family shrine. Her hands shook as she pulled out a small figurine. She brought it back to the table, and George took the small statue in his large hands. He turned it over reverently, running a nimble finger over the small cat and girl.

"I don't believe it. Impossible." He whispered. "_**Beka**_ Cooper." He breathed.

Rosto gaze darted between the two of them. He looked over at the statue clutched in George's large hands. There was no mistaking his puppy and her cat. She was older, stronger, more beautiful, but still essentially Beka. And she was clearly a Dog. Rosto bit the inside of his lip. He'd still harbored the fantasy that perhaps someday, she'd learn to be crooked. Or…at least accept some crookedness in her life.

"What year is this?" Rosto asked hoarsely.

Eleni and George studied the man with new respect. "This is the three hundredth sixtieth year of the Human Era."

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Beka's POV

Somewhat on my chest was purring deeply. I cracked an eye open, and I saw Pounce staring back at me. I jumped up and he yowled as I nearly unbalanced him.

"Pounce! You'll never believe wha—

'_I believe. That's the problem. You're a long way from home.'_

"Pounce?" I repeated, confused. I looked around. This wasn't my room. It smelled sweet and natural, the blankets were thick and clean. Memories about Midsummer, Songwind and the drunk mumper came flooding back. I cursed.

Rosto appeared in my doorway, only to duck back out. I frowned at his reaction, puzzled. Then I looked down. A breast band and breeches. Pox and murrain. I looked around for my shirt. I threw it on quickly and went to find Rosto.

Eleni's home was beautiful, tranquil. Herbs hung from the ceiling, and a teapot hissed over the fire. I took a deep breath; _this_ was a proper home. Eleni was staring at me, awe in her face. I looked away, embarrassed. I didn't know what Rosto told her, but I was sure it was something ridiculous.

Speaking of the Piper, he reappeared at my elbow. "Cooper, there's no easy way to say this." He started. He motioned for a chair. I sat, feeling strange. They were both focused on me, and I wanted nothing more than to disappear. Rosto was turning something over in his hands. Curious, I reached for the trinket, only to shrink back. The figure looked like me, complete with Pounce at my feet. The paint was worn, I looked older.

"How is this possible?" I asked quietly.

"That's what the Cat has been trying to figure out." Eleni said gently. "I've been praying to the Goddess for an answer, but I have received no answer. Faith—I mean, Pounce, has been looking for answers while you rested."

"Why do you have this?" I touched the figure gently, a little scared by it. It looked like something you might find in a shrine.

"Without going into too many details, you're my five-times great grandmother." Eleni said tenderly.

I shook my head rapidly. "No. With all due respect healer, you're a looby. If I were your five-times great grandmother, we must have been gone for—

"A hundred years." Rosto finished. He looked at me bleakly, and I knew he spoke true. I let out a little wail and ran my fingers through my hair. _A hundred years!_

"Where's George?" I asked. My six times great-grandson. And he was the city's Rogue. He certainly didn't get it from MY side of the family.

"Cooper had to take care of the mumper you caught. He'll be back as soon as he's through." Rosto answered. A look of distaste crossed Eleni's features. She understood what Rosto meant by 'taking care.' I knew then the Rat would never make it to a cage.

"I'll never marry." I said suddenly, as the realization hit me. "You're both Coopers, you kept my name. Which means I'll never keep a man." Silly, unneeded tears rose in my eyes. I refused to let them fall.

But it hurt, knowing how my life was going to play out. I'd wanted descendants, children, someday, but I didn't want to raise them without a papa.

"Cooper, don't look at it that way. These people were telling me about your life—

"I don't want to hear it. Don't tell me anything." I pleaded. "It wouldn't be right for me to know." I meant it.

Eleni nodded, she understood. She took the small likeness from Rosto and put it away. I trembled; all those years I spent dreaming of adventures, I'd never dreamed of this. Of living a hundred years beyond my time.

Rosto rubbed my shoulders reassuringly, but I brushed him off. I wasn't in the mood for comfort. Pounce trotted back in, a mouse between his jaws. I scolded him firmly and scooped him up into my arms. "Where's your Copper-nobbed friend now?" I asked him.

'_She's taking magic lessons with the Duke.'_ Pounce let out a rude noise. _'I have better things to do than go near that scummer.'_

I titled my head, puzzled. At least now I knew that Copper-nob was a mot, not a cove. I promised myself I'd ask Pounce about that later. Then George reappeared in the kitchen, flushed but satisfied. "Mother." He kissed her on the cheek. "How's our famous ancestress doing?"

"Famous?" I squeaked.

George raised an eyebrow. "No one's told you yet?"

"She asked that we didn't. Think about it, my son, would you really want to know how your life's going to end? Everything you're going to accomplish, and everything you won't?"

The Rogue thought for a moment. "I suppose not." He answered slowly. "I'd end up second guessing my every move, tryin' to make sure I did things the way they were supposed to be done."

I nodded. That was exactly how I felt. Assuming we managed to get back home, if Eleni told me whom I had descendants with, would I bed the cove because I wanted to, or because I was supposed to? Not that I was itching to bed anyone…

"What did you learn from the Rat?" I asked, trying to change the subject.

"He was hired, after someone had been buying him drinks. Can't recall a name—no surprise—I suppose someone was looking for a cheap way to win the throne. It happens every now and again. I'll be tightening my rein for the next few weeks, until the tosspot gives 'isself up. I don't suppose either of you were involved." George looked squarely at Rosto. The Piper met George's gaze levelly, daring the Rogue to make a direct accusation.

I got up and stepped between them. "It wasn't Rosto." I said sternly. "But you'd best not test him. When we left, he was the Rogue of Tortall."

"And you're friends with him?" George asked incredulously. "My famous, law-enforcing ancestress was involved with the Rogue?" He grinned, as if enjoying a private joke.

"We're not 'involved." I answered crossly. "He moved in next door; we used to live in apartments where the Dancing Dove now stands."

George whistled. "Now I know who you are." He said to Rosto. "You started The Book, didn't you?"

Rosto frowned. "It's still around?" He asked, surprised. "Other Rogues continued it?"

"What book?" I demanded. Rosto and George looked at me, and I blushed. There's only one rule for having crooked friends. Ask not, they'll cheat you naught.

Eleni Cooper looped her arm around mine. "Let's see about getting you some clothes so you can be a 'proper mot' if you wish."

I took one last look back at the two men. They were already deep in conversation, talking about stuff no puppy should get her nose into. I followed Eleni out into the streets of Corus.

_(A/N) My new(ish) words:_

Tom—male cat

Flappers—in this passage, they're synonymous with arms.

Also: I'm totally guessing on the year. I took Beka's time and added a little over a hundred years, so if I'm off by a decade or two, just mentally correct the number as you read. Sorry, I'm a writer wanna-be, not a mathematician wanna-be.


	6. A Lesson for the History Books

**A/N: oh man, I went back and re-read the first chapter…in which Beka referred to Pounce as Faithful! Whoops. If I can figure out how to fix that, I will.**

Eleni and I walked through the streets of the Common, admiring the vendors' wares. As I studied the streets, I realized people were preparing for a celebration.

"What's the occasion?" I asked.

Eleni smiled. "Peace has been declared with Tusaine. Our Copper-nobbed friend had quite a bit to do with it, too." She smiled and turned to inspect some cloth. I peered over her shoulder, waiting for more.

"The noble mot dressed like a cove?" I prompted. Eleni looked surprised, but she said nothing. "Why does she do it?" I wondered aloud. "Is it really that unfashionable to be a gixie _and _a warrior now?"

"The only female warriors nowadays either belong to the Rogue Court, the Goddess's temple or the K'miri tribes." Eleni answered heavily. She walked over to the tailor, prepared to buy the cloth.

"What about the lady knights?" I asked. I pictured the tall, slim figure of Lady Sabine. Surely her kind had not died out so quickly. Aniki and all the other fighting mots of lower city wouldn't stand to be anything other than what they were. They would never submit to wearing skirts and petticoats everyday. I liked dresses well enough, but even I would be sore angry if I had to do Dog's work in them. And I couldn't imagine doing anything other than Dog work.

"There hasn't been a lady knight in over a hundred years, nor a female Dog in a good fifty." Eleni answered. I choked with shock. She pounded my back 'til the air came back to my lungs. "Deep breaths, Lady; and don't worry, I have a feeling the Goddess is about to take the matter into her own hands." She pulled me out of the shops and led me back to her home. Belatedly, I realized she had called me Lady. It was a title of respect, and one I had done nothing to deserve. Yet.

Once we were back in the kitchen, she pulled out the fabric and held it out for me to touch. It was pretty, a smokey blue color that matched my eyes. It was soft and fine, much nicer than my puppy uniform (which was wearing rapidly).

"I think I can modify one of my older dresses to fit you; I'll add this as a trim when I go about the mending." The healer said thoughtfully.

I didn't know how to thank her. My cheeks burned at the irony; my five times great granddaughter was caring for me as she would her own pup. I gave her a stiff hug, which she returned warmly. "Now, be a dear and get some wood for the fire. Squire Alan will be coming by later; we have an appointment to keep." She teased. I nodded, and turned to do as she bid.

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Rosto and George POV

George crouched down, peering under his bed. He pulled out a large, magically locked chest. Even with all the keys and charms, it still took several minutes to undo the lock.

He held out the book to Rosto. "There."

The Piper delicately flipped through the ancient pages. The day after he became the Rogue, he had taken a page out of Beka's book, so to speak. Rosto had watched as she used her journal to keep track of import details for her cases, and he decided to do the same. It wasn't a record book, it wasn't for numbers or facts, it was more of a written guide on being the Rogue. He detailed his methods and measures used to assume control, and he had taken the time to write down any interesting or ingenious tricks he knew. As each proceeding Rogue had added his—or her—experiences, the book had become a heavy volume.

"How'd you manage to dethrone a man with _this_ under his bed?" Rosto asked.

George grinned wolfishly. "I read it several times before challenging him. Poor filcher never knew I was borrowing it."

Rosto scanned several pages. Other Rogues had added drawings of intricate knife designs, of escape routes and safe houses across the city; even details on prominent families—noble and common. The Coopers were noticeably absent.

"You refer to her only as Puppy." George said softly.

Rosto looked up, startled. The young Rogue was a perceptive little foist. "Do I now?" Rosto mused. That was all that needed to be said between them. Rosto handed the book back. "It's good to know I left the Rogue in capable hands."

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Alanna's POV

Faithful yowled with glee as they approached Ms. Cooper's home. _'You should've started these lessons ages ago.'_ He meowed.

Personally, Alanna believed that her cat came along only for the yarn Eleni left lying about. She knocked on the door politely, but stepped back when Beka answered. Alanna wrapped her arms protectively around her cat. Faithful grunted and squirmed, riggling out of her grasp. He wove himself around the legs of both lasses, purring happily.

"I think he believes he owns us both." Beka offered diplomatically. "Mayhap he's got a preference for mots who dress like coves."

Alanna blanched, looking around wildly for anyone who may have been listening. "No one's around." The lass assured Alanna, "Pounce would've said something if—

"His name is Faithful." Alanna corrected. Beka froze, taken aback. Alanna opened her mouth to apologize, then closed it. Alanna's pride was as thick as her temper.

Beka stood for a moment in silence as she seemed re-gather her thoughts. "Eleni said you'd come. Something about an appointment." She looked down and mumbled, suddenly overtaken by shyness.

Alanna nodded mutely; she didn't feel like explaining her 'lady lessons' to the stranger.

Faithful dug his claws into Alanna's leg, making her yelp and curse. _'I taught you better manners than that.'_ He admonished. Alanna turned beet red in embarrassment—she did NOT need chivalry lessons from her cat!

Alanna could've sworn she saw Beka tuck away a small, knowing smile.

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George's POV

It was getting near suppertime, and the crooked duo headed back to Eleni's home.

The scent of warm, fresh bread rose over the wall, and George's stomach grumbled hungrily. With luck, Alanna would still be there, having one her private talks with his Ma. George would give his entire collection of ears to know what happened during these visits.

Beka and Alanna had helped prepare supper, and the lasses seemed to have developed a sort of uneasy camaraderie. George had noticed his ancestress' shyness, while Alanna oftentimes had a quick tongue and an even quicker temper. The two females weren't as close as say, nesting hens, but they chatted easily enough.

Faithful sat at the head of the table, gravely observing the meal. Eleni patted him absently as she put down a small bowl of cream for the cat to lap. He purred and rubbed his head against her hand.

"Well, where were you all afternoon? Cracking heads and counting riches, no doubt." It was a bit of a joke. Eleni didn't actually want to know the gory details of her son's business, but as a mother, she was obligated to ask.

"We did a little researching, drew up a few plans…" George reserved a special look for Alanna. Since discovering she was a she, it was getting harder and harder to pretend Alanna was a lad. Her copper curls had been brushed from her face and tucked mercilessly behind her ears, but her purple eyes were bright and warm. Rosto elbowed him, and George realized he'd been caught staring.

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Beka's POV

My poor descendant has set his sights on a noble. I watched them over dinner that night; he hides it well, but in his mother's home, even a Rogue will soften.

Eleni offered Rosto and me beds for the night; and I stumbled to find the proper words to thank her.

They're wonderful, my family. George has a wry, gentle humor that makes even me comfortable. And Eleni, by Mithros's shield, her kindness knows no bounds. I am proud to think I have such kind descendants.

Oh—Alanna was escorted home that night by Tortall's own Rogue. She seemed oblivious to his affections; and somehow, I don't picture her with a cove of her own. That's one gixie that won't know true love until it's worn her down to the barebones. Mayhap I'm being unkind, seeing as I have no cove of my own, but I plan to fix that someday.

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The next day, Rosto followed George to "work;" whilst I chose to stay with Ms. Cooper. No matter what the year, I can't trust myself to get involved with crooked work. Like Alanna, I have a temper of my own. If I see bad business, I won't let it go unpunished.

Eleni explained to me that there are still Dogs in the city, but now it's proper to call them Provost's Guards, or just the Guards. Seems crack-nobbed to me; Dog is as fine a nickname as any. I still feel as if I need to earn the name "Terrier."

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Somewhat odd happened on my second night outside my time. I was going to fetch Rosto and George for supper, and on my way to the Dancing Dove, I found old Hasfush. He must have found a new way to get rid of his chatter without me; he wasn't any bigger than usual. Still, he was happy to meet his favorite puppy, and he unloaded a week's worth of chatter.

'_They say the Rogue's got new competition in town, never seen the like'_

'_The Scanran, traveling with a lad named Cooper'_

'_Someone tried to kill him this week,'_

'_The tosspot failed me!'_

I jumped, as the last voice was harsh and angry. Those were the only distinctive bits I was able to catch, so I gave Hasfush a bit of dirt from Eleni's garden.

As I continued on my way, I was unfortunate enough to run afoul with a chimney sweep. His broom went straight to my face, covering it with thick black ash. I wiped away what I could, whilst he offered apologies. I caught my reflection in a water trough. My face now matched my Puppy uniform. _'At least no one at the tavern will be able to see my blush.'_ I thought bitterly. What would I be called now? Soot-puppy?

Before I could sulk properly, I heard a gixie scream. She was crying hard, and I heard a god-awful crack. I grabbed my baton and followed the noise.

She was defending her babe from a scummer with a club. He swung wild, trying to hit the bundle. "Giv'it to me." His voice was a nasty growl.

I didn't bother to introduce myself, or to shout 'in the king's name' (I wasn't even sure I was working in the kings name anyway). I grabbed the scut's arm and twisted, pinching the tendons as we'd been taught.

He dropped the club, but managed to free himself from my grip. He turned, saw his attacker and paled. I must have been a sight. In the light of dusk, me all dressed in black, my face covered in ash with pale blue eyes blazing like the hottest part of a flame. He let out a blood curdling yell and tried to run away. I was faster. I nap-tapped him and squared my shoulders in satisfaction as he toppled.

The gixie stared at me as if watching a demon. She clutched her child tighter. "Please, don't hurt her. It wasn't her fault she was born a girl—

"No, it was the Goddess gift." I finished. "What'll I do with him? Will the Do—the Guards take him for assault?"

"He's my husband, they won't do much. He wanted a son, and wasn't going to waste his coin raising a lass." She was weeping. I stood, stock still, trying to accept the information she offered. The man was going to kill his own daughter. The Corus I knew had gone horribly wrong. Even in the Lower City, lives are equal, regardless of what's between a person's legs. I looked at the gixie, dumbstruck.

"Leave your husband." I said quietly. My eyes burned into hers. "If you have relatives, stay with them. Go to the Goddess's temple for protection, keep your baby safe."

She nodded once before scurrying off. I spit on the man's head, kicked him in the tripes for good measure, and left him there. I'm not usually cruel, but this puttock deserved it. If someone came and robbed him while he slept, I'd not shed a tear.

Pox and murrain on all those who don't value their own younglings.

I went back to the horse trough and did my best to wipe the soot off my face. If George and Rosto noticed I was in a mood that evening, they didn't comment.


	7. Shadow Snakes and Meddling Dragons

**Rosto's POV**

On the third day of his 'vacation', there was some excitement in the Rogue court. A thick-set smith came barging into the Dancing Dove, raving. His jaw was heavily bruised, but he yelled well enough.

"The Shadow Snake stole my woman!"

Rosto bit back a laugh. The man was insane. The other patrons also seemed to stifle their amusement. The crack-nob went on, "Dark ally it was, me an' my woman an' babe, headn' for home…then IT appears. Black as coal, eyes burnin' like blue DEMON fire," He shivered, "it attacked my girls. I did wha' I could, but the cursed thing…" He favored the wound on his face. "I woke up later an' they was gone. Stolen! The Shadow Snake took my lass! I seek protection from the Rogue." He prostrated himself before George.

Rosto leaned back in his chair, waiting. It would be interesting to see how George handled the situation. The Rogue called up one of his gixies, a pretty mot called Rispah. She had red hair, and Rosto wondered if George had a soft spot for Copper-nobs.

"Have you seen Edith recently?" He asked softly. Rispah shook her head, no. George raised an eyebrow. People glanced around uneasily; times were strange enough without the Shadow Snake thrown into the mix.

"What proof do you offer that it was indeed the Shadow snake?" George asked loudly.

The smith pulled out a filthy, ripped shirt. "Its touch scorched my shirt; see the black marks it left? Ask any in the Unicorn district, they'll tell you the thing left black footprints in its wake!" His eyes were wild, bloodshot.

Rosto stroked his chin thoughtfully. Last night, Cooper had a good amount of soot on her; and she was even quieter than usual. He'd passed it off as one of her moods, but now…

'_Puppy.'_ He thought wryly. '_What have you got your paws in now?_'

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Beka's POV

I was restless by the third day. After a year of Ahuda's training and so many patrols with my Dogs, I wasn't used to having endless free time. I took my baton and several of George's extra knives as I headed out to the Lower City.

I visited Hasfush again, as well as the other spinners. Shiaa had caught a conversation about overthrowing George. I listened; there was more information on the mumper I'd caught. The boss Rat spoke with sharp, clipped words; I couldn't place the accent. He talked of hiring another assassin, but that was all Shiaa had taken.

When I stepped away from the spinner, I found Blasé standing in front of me. "You're an odd one Cooper." He has a nice, soft voice.

I blushed, not knowing what to say. I was covered in the usual grit, and I vainly tried to brush it away. Soot-puppy indeed!

"How about I show you the city? You mentioned you were new in town, after-all." He was a smooth Rusher.

I smiled like a looby and nodded. He led me to Upmarket, to Patten, all the way to Northgate and back. I was relieved to find the Jane Street Kennel was still in place, but it had undergone some changes—mostly for the better.

We chatted; it was almost as nice as morning breakfast back home. I bit my lip, saddened by the memory. It had been a hundred years. It struck me that I was at least a century older than Blasé. Irrationally, I wondered if he liked older mots.

Blasé had stopped talking, and he seemed to be waiting for an answer. I blinked. "What was that?" I asked, like a bugnob.

"You're a lass, aren't you?"

"Oh." I looked down at my shirt. My peaches were hidden; something else must have given me away. How did Alanna hide her gender everyday? "Yes, I'm a mot."

"Ammot?" He repeated. "Is that your name?"

I frowned. "No. I am a _mot_, a gixie, the opposite of a cove." He still looked confused. I sighed. "Mot means 'lass' where I come from."

His face dawned with comprehension. I was vaguely disappointed. For all his looks and charm, he was a bit slow. Mayhap that was why George trusted him. Blasé didn't have the nob for plots and intrigue. He'd never rise in the Court of the Rogue.

"But if you tell anyone 'bout me, I'll have your tripes for garters." I added threateningly (I don't think he knew what tripes were, but he promised to keep it a secret all the same).

A doxie from the court found us and dragged Blasé back to the Court. He was late for some business.

As I continued on my walk, I resisted the urge to do a Dog's work. There were unchecked filchers loitering about; mostly pickpockets. I broke the fingers of one who tried to lift my belt purse. The ducknob ran from me, cursing and crying.

I bought a raston for lunch; it wasn't near as good as Nolls, but also wasn't tainted by the hand of the shadow snake.

The marketplace was bright and cool; I sat and watched the people of the Lower City. In a hundred years, they haven't changed much. Mayhap the mots are a little more…motley; but the children run and play the same games of tag-the-leader, hand-clap-slap and all the others I remember. There are even a few new games. I saw one group of little ones kicking an old sheep bladder about.

The raston was gone in a matter of minutes; I dusted off my fingers and stood. Somwhat new was coming towards me.

It was an odd-looking Yamani man pushing a cart down the street. He wore a wide brimmed hat, and others brushed by him as though he wasn't even there. I seemed to be the only person to notice him. He plodded slowly but steadily in my direction.

The elderly cove paused and looked up, revealing glims that sparkled with the knowledge of centuries. The eyes were too green to be human. As I stared, I realized it was Songwind. The master dragon had assumed human form. He stretched out a wizened old tickler, beckoning me to come closer. I swallowed my heart and hoped it returned to its proper place.

"Master Dragon." I bowed.

He chuckled; it was a soft, musical sound. Distantly, I noted that this laugh was much more pleasant than his roar. "Beka Cooper, we must talk. The Cat found me; he explained what has happened. I am afraid it is my fault." His voice seemed to drift away. "I haven't made a mistake in over a thousand years; I suppose it was about time." He smiled dryly.

"Your spell took a little longer than you probably planned." I offered politely. Things had worked out well enough; I suppose I wasn't too angry with him.

"The spell took exactly as much as I planned to take." He said harshly. "I _meant_ that there were some interesting complications to the spell. Have you noticed anything odd about this time? Perhaps the fact that you have descendants when you've yet to have a child?"

My nob near exploded. I hadn't even thought of that! I'd just gone along with the story, accepting that I'd lived in two places at once. I stared at Songwind, lost.

"Yes. You certainly noticed, although the implications escaped you." He looked amused again. I scowled; he was making me out to be a fool. It didn't help that I felt like one.

"And how do you explain that, Master Songwind? What did your spell do, exactly?"

"I very much doubt you'll understand what I'm about to tell you." He paused. "How do I explain the universes to such a simple creature?" He seemed to be musing aloud. I crossed my arms and tapped my foot. My baton seemed much less pathetic when he was in this form.

He tugged his long white goatee. "The gods have a certain way of doing things. They like order, linear progression. The fates have set the world in such a way that certain events MUST happen. Every now and again, a bugnob mortal will enter the equation and throw off the intricate balances created by immortals. Your Rosto is such a one." He smiled at a private thought. I waited.

"I came up with this theory several eons ago, but my kin are still reluctant to accept it. I believe that there is this universe, and then there are others. No—let me finish." He'd known I was about to interrupt him. "You know the three realms, the Divine, the Peaceful, and this one. I do not speak of realms, I speak of _universes_. Alternate dimensions, different layers in the fabric of space." He picked a bamboo stick off his cart and drew three lines in the dust.

"See these lines? Think of them as different worlds, three different versions of the mortal realm. Each is real, each is separate. You belong, perhaps, to the middle one." He tapped the second line.

"Now, instead of three lines, imagine there are several thousand. There is actually an infinite amount, but I'm trying to keep this simple, accessible. You see?"

I saw three lines in the dirt, and little more. He continued anyway. "While you, Beka, belong here, there are two other Bekas here, and here." He pointed to the two other lines. "You will never meet the others, for you do not belong in the same space. When the universes touch, two Bekas become one. You see, the dimensions are not straight lines in sand. They are bubbles. They touch, they bounce, collide, and they probably skip too. I have never observed them firsthand."

He waited for me to laugh at his joke, but I was having enough trouble understanding the rest of his words.

"Now, when one Beka went to the Divine realms; one of you traveled, another did not. Do you remember the misalignments in your body? I attributed them to the wrong error. You weren't reformed, you were split. You managed to create a new offshoot of this dimension, and a double, a likeness of you, came to me."

I must have blanched. He reassured me, "Now, not to worry; when I took the time to re-assemble you, I fixed any physical problems _you_ may have had with the split. The copy is now better than the original, if I may say so. But now, in this universe, there has already been a Beka, one who has already lived and died. The problem is that there is a second Beka, you."

"How do I go home?" I asked softly. I refused to think about his theories. There was already enough madness in my life. "Can you take me back in time; to before I split?"

"Time?" His voice thundered in my nob, but in my ear, it was nothing louder than a whisper. I seemed to have hit a sore point with the master mage. "Time is nothing more than a means to separate the stages of change. It is a mind concept, something that only exists to those with the capacity to conceive it. It is an expression of space, a unit of measure for that which can never be quantified. Listen to me Beka Cooper, time is nothing!"

I stepped back, tripped and fell on my arse. I sat there, bewildered. I am a simple puppy; the inner workings of the universe do not interest me. Songwind calmed himself, taking a deep breath. I scooted back farther in case he decided to exhale flames. I remember the stories my mama used to tell me about dragons, none of them ended well for the mortals.

"I will reverse the spell. This offshoot of the universe will die when I do. I will return when I am ready." In a puff of purple smoke, the old cove disappeared, along with his cart and wares. I decided not to tell Rosto about this. I wasn't even sure that I could.

**a/n: Forget most of Songwind's B.S. I apologize for all the science(y) words, but I needed a loophole to explain how Beka could have had descendants if she wasn't around to have them. I'm not planning to be a) a mathematician or b) a scientist when I grow up (guess that pretty much leave me with history and writing). **


	8. Can you Canoodle?

Beka's POV

I returned to the Cooper's home; Rosto was there waiting for me. Eleni was nowhere in sight. I poured myself a cup of water looked at Rosto dully. This was one Puppy that needed a catnap.

Rosto had a dark look in his eyes. I glared right back at him; I was still reeling from my 'talk' with Songwind.

"Blasé." Rosto spat out the name like a curse. "What do you know about him? More importantly, what does HE know about you?"

I shrugged loosely. "He knows I'm a mot." It didn't seem important, but it was the only thing that came to mind.

"Yes. He knows you're a mot. That was definitely mentioned." Rosto said sourly. "Puppy, sit."

Normally, I would've responded with a biting comment or a mild kick, but he seemed deadly serious. I sat.

"That…puttock…has been talking. Saying some…unkind things. Well, mayhap they're not unkind, but they're certainly not…" He trailed off awkwardly. I blinked. Rosto was at a loss for words. I never thought—not in a hundred years—

"He's been telling stories. Bragging about…

I caught on. "Oh." Blood ran to my face. I think Rosto interpreted it as a blush.

"You haven't…" The disbelief was plain on his face.

I scowled. "You're an idiot, Piper. No, I didn't, not with him! But you're a cuddy to even ask something so…personal!" I stood angrily, ready to march off. He grabbed my arm.

"Have you ever…I mean…_ever_?"

"Yes, not that it's any of your business!" My heart thundered loudly in my throat. His grip slackened. He seemed unusually surprised. My temper rose, cold and deadly.

"You're the same pox-ridden rusher who strolled into Corus six months ago." I hissed. "You haven't changed, for all you won the Rogue Court. You still think shy is stupid and careful is prude. Well, Piper, I've had my share of canoodling; just because I don't pick a new cove every week doesn't make me a priest!" I started to stomp away.

"Coop—Beka." Halfway through my surname, his tone changed. He said "Beka" with a sort of sincerity I'd never heard from him before. I turned back, surprised.

He took a deep breath. "Beka, for a gixie who doesn't talk much, you certainly put a lot of words in my mouth."

There was no way I could've anticipated his next move. His arm snaked out and pulled me close, his lips pressed warmly against mine. I struggled; as pleasant as the kiss was, I didn't want it. "Talk about putting things in other people's mouths." I muttered.

Rosto threw back his head and laughed. After a moment, he sobered. "Beka, don't get the wrong impression. I wasn't surprised—well, I was but…it was more that I was disappointed."

My brow furrowed. "Disappointed?" I repeated.

His grin was lopsided. "I hoped I'd be able to teach you something one day."

My temper reached subzero temperatures. I hit him across the jaw and fled. How dare he!?

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Rosto's POV

Rosto rotated his neck and rubbed his jaw gingerly. Well, that didn't go as planned. He should have kept his gob shut, in more ways than one. But…this was the one chance they had to be together. In a time when she didn't belong to the guards and he didn't belong to the Rogue. Why'd he have to fall for such a stubborn pup?

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Beka's POV

Pounce found me fuming in front of the city well. He let out a series of murts, all of which sounded like pure cat. I hugged him, and for once, he didn't struggle. When I relaxed my hold, he climbed up onto my shoulder and purred reassuringly. Somehow he knew I wasn't in the mood for conversation.

After minutes of sulking, I grew tired of it. I hefted my baton and stretched my limbs. If the guards around here wouldn't do their job, I'd do it for them. I needed to do _something_. I bought a small roll of bread and went to find some birdies.

**a/n: yes, this chapter is short and crappy. Don't bother to flame, I already noticed. Sorry, I felt compelled to update, but I don't think this was the opportune moment...life's a little crazy right now, I'll probably edit this later. **

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	9. A Cove's Nose

**Beka's POV**

Messinger Lane was where I remembered it. I followed my feet down Holderman street, all the way to Glassman square. My ma once said, "the more things change, the more things stay the same."

Mots stood about, nattering at younglings over their tubs of laundry. A few strong coves bent under the weight of large buckets of water. The Glassman pool was the source of water for most of the Lower City. I stopped a vendor and bought three loaves of stale bread.

It was as if I'd never left. Pigeons swarmed me; this flock had gotten even bigger. The largest pigeon, the flock leader, was a light blue color, with dark speckles and brownish wings. He strutted right up to me and pecked my hand. Pounce growled at the bold bird and it flew back to the ground where it belonged. I decided to name him Brass.

There was a pigeon almost pure white, a nervous fellow that took two steps toward me before flapping three feet back. I gently tossed a piece of bread on the ground; the crumbs landed a fair ways away from where I sat. I named the shy pigeon Meek, and he dove for the bread I'd thrown.

Dozens of other pigeons mobbed me; I sat still and waited for their spirits to talk. Meek had no soul, so I let him be. It was Brass who had a nasty rider.

'_Three years working for that tosspot an' I never got me due. Always yattering 'bout 'is plans, I swear to Mithros and Goddess…"_

I leaned in closer to listen. The soul was angry, not at all like the usual victims I found. It was a mot; her voice was hard and raspy. _"So I tells 'im; you get off your arse and kill 'im already, or I'm out." _She let out a mirthless laugh_. "Oh, was 'e mad. Didn't want 'is sweet little setup interrupted. I never had a beatin' like that 'afore, never will again. Damn looby prolly still hasn't got the tripes ta go through wif his plan. Coward. Good riddance. I'll see 'im in the realms of the dead, yessir, I'll be waiting I will…_

Brass took off, along with the rest of the flock. I muttered a curse to all hawks and stood. My nose crinkled; a pigeon had left his mark on my tunic.

Pounce settled on my shoulder, unperturbed by the stink. I looked around, pondering what to do next. There were more pigeons in Corus; and I was sure there were plenty more Rats to catch, but Rosto kept popping up in my mind's eye.

I wasn't ready to make amends. He crossed a line, and I wasn't in a forgiving mood. My eyes wandered across the square and landed on a redheaded mot I'd seen at the Dancing Dove. She was older, very pretty, although today she dressed in rough clothes and had her sleeves hiked up past her elbows. I seemed to remember someone calling her Rispah.

The Rogue lady scrubbed her wash, chatting with a group of mots about her age. I wandered over to them, wondering how I could join their conversation. Rispah solved the problem for me.

"Ladies, this is a long lost Cooper; she came all the way from Scanra with that handsome blond fellow."

A couple of the women exchanged knowing looks. "Rosto the Piper. Very handsome. He's got a nice, big nose, that's a good sign." A brunette said coyly. Another woman sniggered.

"Now, if you like big…"noses," George is quite a catch." There was more laughter. Understanding hit me like one of Ahuda's baton strikes. I remembered years ago, in Mutt Piddle, Gemma explained to her friends that a man's nose was related to the size of his…well, you know.

I frowned; Rosto had probably gotten to know most of the women in Court by now. He seemed popular enough with this crowd. If he'd kept two mots at once, what was he like when he had none in his keeping? He might as well go into work as a spintry.

I think Rispah noticed I was turning sour. "I see Squire Alan's cat is with you today, Beka. That cat is another handsome fellow; tell me where do you find all of them?"

"Not to sound prideful, ma'am, but they usually find me." I answered. A few of the older women chuckled. I smiled shyly and offered to help with the laundry. Rispah passed me a board and I set to work.

I didn't talk much; I tried to concentrate on scrubbing. The women soon warmed to me, and I listened to their gossip. "George has been distracted lately." A middle-aged gixie noted. Her solid figure suggested she was used to hard work. "I asked him about the other Rogue Courts and he went off about nobles an' knights an' fancy dinner parties." She shrugged. "It was like he wasn't even listening to me."

"There's some men rustling in Court. They say George is soft, he runs the underworld almost as clean as Provost. George punishes those who kill in cold blood—even when its business related—he's given us womenfolk almost as much say as the men, an' anyone who shrinks their responsibilities to those under protection of the court…" A silver-haired mot touched her ear. Someone shuddered.

Rispah explained to me, "George takes an ear for those who make one mistake; after that…" Her smile was grim. I nodded and looked down at my wash. The breeches were still dirty, and my arms were starting to ache. But I'd not let myself be shown up by maids thirty years older. I pushed the breeches into the board even harder.

Pounce wandered away; he probably planned to eat supper at the palace. His noble friend could probably afford much tastier fish.

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**Rosto's POV**

Rosto sauntered down the streets of Corus, debating whether to apologize to Beka. The gixie was too clean; his comment wasn't _that_ dirty. He sighed. If it had been Aniki or Kora, he'd buy a hadsome sword or a pretty comb to make them forget the whole thing. But he'd learned early that Beka wasn't one to take bribes.

He spotted Blasé up ahead; the scummer was flirting with a new gixie. She was a nervous, small woman with watery brown eyes. Rosto's smile turned feral. He caught up with the pair and looped his arm around the girl's. "Sunlight does not sparkle when compared to your bright charm." His voice was low and husky. The girl jumped, but she smiled. She didn't look half-bad. She was a little to slim for his tastes, but this wasn't about his wants. It was about what Blasé wanted, and how Rosto was going to take it away.

Rosto gave the lass his strongest "come hither" look and she melted. The little doxie seemed to gain confidence as he smiled at her; Rosto silently pegged her as a people-pleaser. Her gaze darted back to Blasé, who was already starting to fume.

"Excuse me, but _we_ were talking." Blasé looked pointedly at his fair-weather mot.

"And now she has nothing left to say." Rosto added glibly. He took a step away and the mot followed him. It was too easy.

"Watch your back, Scanran." Blasé's voice was almost to low for Rosto to hear. Almost.

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**George's POV**

George nursed a cup of wine whilst Eleni saw to the cut on his free arm. He'd faced a challenge for the first time this month.

"He was young, more muscle than brains. Claimed to have trained with the Shang." George snorted. "He was trained to fall alright. I got the impression someone put him up to it."

"Like the Rat that Beka caught earlier this week." Eleni murmured. She whispered a few more words and wrapped up her healing. "It sounds like someone is taking pains to weaken you before the master moves in to strike."

George nodded. He had reached the same conclusion on his way home. "I don't like folk who hide in the shadows and wait for their grunts to do all the heavy lifting. If a man wants something, he ought to be straightforward and come out and take it."

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**Beka's POV**

I helped Rispah carry her laundry. "Why do you do it?" I asked. "Surely you could afford to pay someone to clean your clothes for you."

Rispah smiled. "Of course I could. But the women might say I've got airs; that I think I'm above them. Moreover, it's good exercise for the arms, I like the fresh air, and many of those women are loose-mouthed over laundry." She shifted the basket so that it rested comfortably on her hip. "It's my job to keep track of the women of the Rogue, to know their secrets so that George has one less worry at night."

"You're the Queen." I said, awed.

"You may close your mouth, little one, and I'd best not catch you calling me 'your majesty' or any such nonsense. I _work_ for a livin; I even scrub my own breast bands."

I giggled. I liked Rispah; she had Goodwin's wry humor and Tunstall's warmth.

"Now, I saw the look on your face when the women spoke of your handsome friend. What's the matter?"

"He's not _my_ anything." I said darkly. "He just thinks I'm his. Rosto's a proud Rusher; one of his gixies back home once said he's, 'normally not thick about mots, but he's slow when they're not in love with him."

Rispah laughed. "That's how most men are, not just the Piper. I like your friend's perspective, whoever it was. So, you're not in love with him then?"

I opened my gob, but the words refused to come. I mouthed silently for a moment, and then everything went tumbling out at once. "He's old, he's crooked, he's got white hair for Mithros sakes! He comes and goes as he pleases—much like my cat. I trust him, but _only_ in the way you trust a fellow dog—even if he is crooked. He keeps more than one mot at a time, and I've enough pride of my own. He kisses me when I'm not asking to be kissed, and sometimes I like it but," I paused for breath.

"So, you're not sure how you feel about him." Rispah ventured. I nodded, blushing.

"Confusion isn't such a bad thing. At least you're able to see both sides of the argument." She shrugged and continued her walk. I fell in step behind her.

If confusion is a good thing, then the Goddess has blessed me a dozen times over.

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**a/n: Sorry it took so long to get around this writers block. Hope you enjoyed this chapter. About the nose thing...I was watching Roxanne (a romantic comedy with Steve Martin) and the movie makes that suggestion several times. I then noticed how many of Tortall's sexiest men have big noses and I couldn't help but think there was a reason... **


	10. Whose Hotblood?

**Beka's POV**

Rosto never came back to Eleni's that night. I tried to convince myself that I didn't care, but I certainly noticed.

In the morning, I rose and scrubbed my face. Once my eyes were clean of Ganiel's sleep dust, I noticed the dress that was draped over my nightstand. Eleni had taken one of her older dresses and sewn light blue trim on the sleeves and bodice. The body of the dress was a soft cream color. It was very pretty.

Quickly, I jumped out of my ragged uniform and attempted to put on the dress. It was a different, more complex make than I was used to; I ended up with extra lacings and even an extra petticoat.

There was a knock on my door and I heard Eleni's soft voice. "Beka, how does the dress fit?"

"I don't know." I answered honestly.

"May I come in?" Eleni asked gently. I nodded before I realized she couldn't see my face.

"Come in." I mumbled. Blood rushed to my cheeks. Eleni raised an eyebrow at the sight of her "famous" ancestress all in a tangle of skirts and lacings.

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Squire Alanna came by the morning. I felt slightly better as copper-nob fumbled with her own dress. Eleni helped her get it on, and I was impressed by the change.

She's pretty, in a unique sort of way. It's not Kora's classic beauty, nor Aniki's deadly grace, but there's something about that mot that draws the eye. I suppose I can understand George's fancy.

Once Alanna and I were dressed all proper, Eleni decided we were in for lady lessons. First, she had to teach us to sit. "Sweep your skirts out like this." Eleni commanded. Alanna and I shared a worried glance.

It took nearly a half hour for us to get it right. Pounce had returned; he sat in Eleni's den purring over a ball of yarn. Mostly he ignored us; but then Eleni started to make tea. He darted back into the kitchen, sniffing boldly. The healer laughed and produced a small bowl of milk for him.

"He's foul-mouthed to begin with, and that cream won't help." Alanna muttered. I laughed. Pounce was too busy lapping up his treat to make a clever retort.

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**Rosto's POV**

Rosto sat at the bar, gingerly sniffing his tankard of warm ale. He couldn't bring himself to take a sip; he should have ordered something to eat instead. It was early morning, and he'd been lurking around the Lower City all night.

Instead of taking a drink, Rosto mulled over the events of the previous night. Blasé's mot was a silly little creature, and a true doxie. Rosto hadn't been interested in her attempts to promote her "business" but he was interested in the oddly spiced hotblood she left on her bedside table. The scent burned his sharp nostrils; his tripes clenched in warning.

As the doxie fluttered around her kitchen, he studied the bottle, and noticed the note tucked underneath it.

"_Suggestive."_ The word was written in with a smooth, wide script. It could have been a lover's note; excepting the small, charcoal snake drawn in the corner. It was, unmistakably, the latest symbol for the Shadow Snake. It differed from the one he knew, but the idea was the same.

His thoughts flew to Beka, but just as quickly, he rejected the idea that she was involved. He might not have been on speaking terms with her at the moment, but he knew her. Beka Cooper was a clean, honest mot. There wasn't a crooked bone in her body. He reasoned that someone had been inspired by her attack on the blacksmith; and a copycat had sprung from the shadows. It happened every so often in Scanra.

Rosto knew hotblood did odd things to the mind. Also, thanks to Kora's teaching, he knew about the powers of certain plants on the body. Combine the alcohol with the proper herbs, add a mild, undetectable spell, and even the most sarden and stubborn cove will become flexible. That must have been how the "shadow snake" persuaded the mumper to attack George several days ago.

Rosto could see why this particular doxie might use the laced hotblood on her own customers, but she wasn't wealthy or influential enough to have come by the drink on her own.

"Who gave this to you?" Rosto asked, indicating toward the wine.

The woman smiled lazily, smug. He was beginning to see that the mousy brunette was actually a vicious little mink. "An admirer." She said coyly.

Eventually, she tried to feed him some. Rosto danced around a bit, spun a tale about important matters elsewhere, and fled her apartment as soon as possible.

His thoughts drifted back to the bar, to his current reality. He sighed; he felt as though this was all a daydream gone wrong. Finally, he gave up on the ale and asked for barley water. His stomach churned unpleasantly as the water made him think of Beka once more. If he wanted to eat anything over the next several days, the first thing he needed to swallow was his pride. He needed to apologize.

Rosto's gaze wandered over to George, who sat lounging in his throne.

A Player shuffled into the Dancing Dove. The newcomer was a wiry young rusher, and he had a Rat with him. Rosto watched the scene idly as the cove tossed the prisoner before George. This promised to be interesting.

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**Beka's POV**

Brass found me again, on my way to the Dancing Dove. He's a brave little birdie alright; and fool enough to leave his flock. He pecked at me, and I brushed him away.

"_I told 'im ta stop hiring others. Ya wants a job done right, ya does it yerself. Stop asking me ta be the middle woman. Didn't listen—'e never listened. Oy—Some players came and took my body. My body! I want it burned; I don't wanna go ta the Realms of the dead, looking like raw meat. At least take me to the goddess's temple!"_ Brass's wings knocked my face. I threw up my arms to protect myself. Once the bird was away from my face; I reached out and grabbed it. I held his chest, pinning his wings to his side.

"Now, you listen here, miss." I looked the pigeon straight in the glims. "I can't help you unless you give me somewhat to work with. What'd he look like? What's his name? Where does he live?" I was whispering, trying to look like less of a looby. What would a passerby think if they heard me discussing murder with a pigeon? Even _I_ didn't expect Brass's rider to answer.

"_He lives up at the palace."_ The woman's soul whispered back. Brass quieted under my hands. I've never had a soul talk back to me afore. Usually, they're so caught up in being…well, _caught_ between realms; they usually can't muster the focus to talk to me. But this gixie was different. Mayhap she had animal magic when she was alive, and mayhap that gave her a special connection with the bird. I don't know. But Brass looked at me, and I had the feeling he was listening.

"What else can you tell me? What's his name?" But Brass's claw reached up and dug into the soft skin on my wrist. I yelped and let him go. The bird sped away, probably back to his flock.

I used my sleeve to blot the small drops of blood. I bought a small flask of spirits to wash out the cut. The merchant selling the swill was a spindly man, tall and dark-haired. When he spoke, he was polite enough, but there was something sharp in his tone. Something about it stuck in my head, but I shook off the sensation. His wares were cheap; probably a poor quality, but I didn't pay much mind.

Mayhap I was tired, mayhap my head and heart were sore from the spat I had with Rosto. Whatever the reason, I took a sip of the potent drink. As the liquid seared my tongue, I wondered how some folk drank it all the time. I immediately spat out most of it; the burning taste lingered in my mouth.

**George's POV**

Sometime during midmorning, Marek appeared in Court. As Beka would say, Marek had 'a Rat in his hobbles.' Swiftknife hovered over a man who was trussed up like a midwinter goose. George raised an eyebrow.

'_Someone's been spending too much time with extended family.'_ George thought, with grim good humor.

"Your majesty, this grunt has information you may find interesting." Marek kicked the prisoner, who let out a muffled 'omph.'

George flicked his fingers, gesturing for Marek to remove the gag.

The prisoner was thirty-something, a thin, weak creature with mousy brown hair and dull grey eyes. He looked up at the Rogue fearfully as he gasped for breath.

"Well? Marek doesn't bother chasing small prey; you're either a large fool or…" He let his voice trail carelessly, but a knife appeared in his right hand. He twirled it and gazed at the man with eyes that were uncharacteristically chilly.

The prisoner stammered, "I…I…fed the pauper the hotblood wine, and then gave him some coppers to attack you. A doxie gave me the money for everything, said her man gave _her_ specific instructions. I had a little fun, took the coin, and did as she told me. Never thought the mumper would be that daft…I found out later that the wine was spelled, made the person 'ceptible to suggestions."

"Who was the woman?" George's voice was ice cold.

"Said 'er name was Anne—I never met the man she worked fer. She was a _woman_—nicely rounded, knew how ta use her charms…" a small, smug smile flicked briefly across his face. Marek cuffed him, and the man returned to reality. "Blond, mid-thirties, green eyes—tough voice, for a woman. Wears a lot of green; ta bring out 'er eyes, she says."

"We found her, George." Marek interrupted. "After this one gave us the information, Scholar and I put our eyes for her."

"And?" George bit back a growl of impatience. Marek was being deliberately slow.

"And…" Marek took a deep breath. "She's…dead. Looks like somewhat din't want his miss blabbing 'is secrets. Musta fought like a wildcat, looks like she was beaten to death."

The prisoner had the grace to look horrified. "Anne! She was an innocent little la—

"Innocent enough to plot murder." George said darkly. "And now we've—quite literally—found another dead end. Whoever's behind this is a slippery old fish."

"Not a fish, majesty." Marek said quietly. "A snake." He held out a scrap of parchment. "We found this with her body." The charcoal drawing sent an involuntary shiver down George's spine. The Shadow Snake.

George distinctly remembered Beka's sooty uniform, her guilty face and sour mood. The first attack had been reported the morning after. He hated the connections his mind was starting to make. He had been a fool to trust "Beka" and such a mad tale.

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**Rosto's POV**

Rosto still sat at the bar, drinking in the information Swiftknife's Rat provided. The doxie he'd met, and the one who died—they were both tied to the cuddy using the name "Shadow Snake." The coward was relying on cheap tricks and puttocks do carry out his will; the Snake hadn't the courage to challenge George honorably.

Speaking of George…Rosto caught the dark look in the Rogue's eyes. George was fitting the pieces together; and one of those pieces was Beka. George had seen Beka in a temper, all sooty, right before the blacksmith claimed he was attacked by the snake. Undoubtedly, George suspected that Beka _was_ the snake. In George's position, Rosto would be reaching the same conclusion.

Rosto let out a short hiss of breath. No.

Beka was at the door, nursing a small cut on her wrist. Her pale blue eyes flicked in Rosto's direction, and he saw a shimmer of regret in her gaze.

In five swift strides, Rosto crossed the room and grabbed Beka's uninjured arm, pulling her back out into the street. "Come quick, ask questions later." He murmured.


	11. Castle dwellers, Kings and Kisses

**Beka's POV**

As I walked into the tavern, Rosto nearly tackled me. He grabbed my arm and spun me about, leading me away from the bar. I didn't struggle because there was something in Rosto's eyes I'd never seen before. Fear.

When we were well away from the Dancing Dove, Rosto finally slowed and released my arm. "What's wrong?" I asked softly. I tried to keep my voice calm; I didn't want to spook him. His eyes were red, he looked exhausted. I wondered what (and possibly who) he'd done the previous night.

"You might be in trouble." He started tensely. Rosto looked around; his were hunkerbones bristling like a cat's. Somewhat in the market square seemed to bother him; he drew me into the shadows of a nearby ally.

"Some scut has revived the alias of "shadow snake." If I read the Rogue right, he thinks _you're_ the most likely culprit."

I blinked and frowned at him. "You've gone crack-nobbed." I told him firmly. "You—

"Cooper!" He voice was sharp. "Don't argue with me, you stubborn gixie. I know you wouldn't do it, but George has reasons to suspect you."

I shut my gob, ready to listen. He continued, "Remember that blacksmith you nap-tapped?"

He caught my surprise and a ghost of a smile flickered across his face. "Yes; we guessed it was you. He came to the Rogue, claiming the Shadow Snake had stolen his wife and babe. He offered a sooty shirt as evidence. George saw you covered in ash that night. Now, from the look on your face, I can tell the jingle-nob deserved the beating. Mayhap he was just making excuse, but his words fell on the wrong ears. Someone must've thought invoking the name of the Shadow Snake was a fine idea. You'll know all about copycats—from your dog training—yes?"

I nodded. When one Rat commits a successful crime, sometimes another is inspired to try the same thing. It's one of the reasons we Dogs don't hobble and tell. It's fair foolish to tell a Rat the means to cause trouble.

Rosto hesitated. He studied me carefully for a moment, and took a deep breath. "Then, last night, I was in the home of some doxie who had a spelled bottle of wine. It had a note signed by someone claiming to be the shadow snake. Today, one of the court Rushers found a mot murdered—and someone left a note with her body. It carried the same stamp of the Shadow Snake. You showed up just as all this trouble began. Who do you think George would suspect?"

"Me." I whispered, horrified. My descendant thought I was trying to kill him. I shook my head, attempting to clear my thoughts. "I'm going back to the tavern. He needs things explained properly—

"Beka, I love you, but that's the most crack-nobbed idea you've ever had." He still looked worried, but slightly amused.

My jaw dropped. "What in-the-name-of-Hag's-rotten-teeth did you just say?" My breath caught in my throat. I promised myself I would slit his pretty throat if it were a joke.

"I said, the idea is crack-nobbed." He repeated, with studied patience. I swung my arm to smack him upside the head. He caught my flapper easily and held it still. "I also might have admitted that I love you." He said softly. His eyes flicked back and forth as they studied my own. "Does it surprise you? Do you care?" He spoke carefully. "Mayhap that's why I was a cuddy about Blasé, and I'm sorry. Beka, I'll not offer this freely as I've done with kisses. If you—

He had to stop talking when my mouth covered his. He released my arm and his hand moved to caress the curve of my neck. He's so tall; I had to stand on the balls of my feet to reach him. I like the taste of Rosto; he's sweet, for all that he can be rotten and crooked. After a moment, I pulled away. "I love you too; but you're still a looby." I said affectionately. I'd loved him for a while by then; but that was the first time I was fool enough to say it aloud. I think I knew then who George's six-times great grandfather was. Mayhap that was it was so easy to admit I loved him. I promised myself I'd worry about the doxie he mentioned later.

He grinned, but the smile quickly faded. He held my arms gently. "You're not going back to the Dancing Dove. If George kills you; I swear to Mithros and Goddess I'll kill him. I don't care if he's your descendent or no."

In a single moment, I was reminded why I'd promised not to go with a Rusher. He said he'd kill George, and he meant it. Murder—against the King's law; could I live with that? (Not that I'd have to; given the wording of his promise.)

**George's POV**

"I want you to follow my…relation; bring her and the Scanran back here. Unharmed…for now."

Marek winced at the sound of George's chilly tones. Swiftknife felt a small pang of sympathy for the foreign pair.

George watched as a half-dozen of his best men departed. He fumed at his chair, humiliated and bemused. "Blasé!" George's voice was harsh; he made a note to rein his temper. This was no one's fault but his own.

"Yes, your majesty." The dark-haired lad materialized from the tavern tables.

"Bring me your Uncle; the one who works up at the palace. I'm going to need truth spells."

Blasé bowed, and disappeared from the room.

**Blasé's POV**

"Excellent. Now we have a scapegoat, on the very slim chance our plans should fail. The Scanran was unwise to offend you." Blasé's uncle was a tall and dark-haired; a thin man with a sinister presence. He was half-bazhir by birth, though he took pains to hide his heritage. Several years back, Uncle Hashim had scraped his way into the palace. He worked primarily as healer, but also as an interrogator when Myles (or the Rogue) had need of him. Generally, the king and his nobles avoided Hashim.

Life had not been good to this man. His face bore the scars of a child-hood disease and his hands were gnarled from numerous beatings. Still, he had adopted Blasé and treated the lad like a son. Hashim had given his nephew a temporary home and work when the boy had nowhere and no one else. Blasé would never forget that. Whores could come and go—some might question Hashim's murder of Anne Washer—but Blasé would remain faithful to his family.

"What of the girl? If you're interested in keeping her, we will find a way to avoid killing George's…cousin." Hashim's lip curled.

Blasé shook his head. "She seems loyal to the Scanran, and my desires are secondary to the security of your rule."

"You are a most perfect assistant." Hashim murmered, pleased.

Blasé beamed at his uncle's praise. "Tonight then? It should be easy enough to slip poison into George's cup. He'll die before you, and none will question your authority. And if they do, I'll be ready." Blasé's white teeth flashed as two daggers appeared in his hands.

**Rosto's POV**

"Cooper, how'd you tame a new flock so quick? We've naught been here a week." Rosto brushed off a pale pink pigeon seconds before it relieved itself.

"Birds like me." Beka said vaguely. She'd given him a non-answer. Of course she'd not lie if she could help it. She navigated through the flock, trying her best not to ruffle feathers. She was looking for particular bird. After a few moments, she let out a low cry of success. In her hands, she held a large light-blue bird, whom she introduced as 'Brass.'

She held it gently; all her attention on the pea-brained bird. She bit her lip as she concentrated…on what? She was holding a pigeon! Rosto studied the creature, hoping to detect some clue as to why Beka was acting so odd. Then he noticed her head bobbed a fraction of an inch; as though she'd just heard something and agreed. Beka talked to the pigeons?

'_I think we'll need to have another talk soon.' _Rosto thought. _'But not _too _soon.'_ His sensible side added. Gods, he hated to talk about emotions, particularly his own. On the other hand, most mots liked that sort of thing. Therefore, he usually let them do all the talking. Beka was different. He knew that from the moment he met her. She had bark and bite; and she wouldn't come easily like all the others. Similar to Kora and Aniki, he suspected she'd knock him around a bit until he had her figured out. A part of him even looked forward to that.

What had prompted the madness of a few moments ago? He would blame exhaustion. He'd been awake for a full day now. Still, her kiss had been worth it. It felt a dozen times better to kiss her when she kissed back.

**A/N: SPOILER ALERT! (but only for this particular humble fanfic)**

**I started this story because one day I wondered: "Who would win in a fight, George or Rosto?" Hmm, the clash of the handsome Rogue Titans coming soon to**

**So, who do you think will win? **


	12. Birdies

**Beka**

I waded through a crowd of pigeons, looking for Brass. I hoped that mayhap I could use the bird to prove I was innocent. George was my kin; I reasoned that if we touched the bird at the same time, he'd be able to hear the soul as well. I'd done it for my siblings when Ma died.

Rosto indulged my desire to visit the pigeons. He kept an eye on the street as I made a looby of myself, dodging around droppings and jittery claws. Finally, with a yelp of triumph, I lunged and caught Brass. He squawked arrogantly; I was disrespecting him in front of all his pigeon friends.

Rosto looked at the birdie curiously, no doubt wondering why I needed a pigeon. I blushed and told him I'd named the bird Brass.

Brass's rider started to chatter right away. _"He's coming down to us. Wants to take the throne tonight. I wen' all the way up ta the palace ta spy. My da would'a been proud." _

I was shocked. I'd never thought to train the birds and their riders; but this mot went and did _real_ birdie work on her own.

"_What's you name, lady?"_ I asked with my mind. She wasn't a normal ghost; I'd never tried this afore. It was her unusual strength that made me believe George would hear her.

"_My name is Anne."_ The mot whispered. I bobbed my head; pleased that she could understand me.

I looked around, and saw Rosto watching me curiously. I decided that the time for keeping this secret had passed. I took a deep breath. "Rosto." I watched his face anxiously. "I can…I can hear the voices of the dead." My voice was barely above a whisper.

I stared at the ground. "The ghosts ride on the backs of pigeons. Remember when I knew it was Ulsa's men who attacked you? That's because I heard the ghosts at my windowsill, arguing about whose fault it was that they was dead. My birdies…they really _are_ birds. I didn't want to tell you; I wouldn't have even told Goodwin an' Tunstall if Noles hadn't given them that treat. My ma used to think I was a looby; but my Gran says the gift runs in the family." I bit my lip. There. Either he trusted me or he didn't.

Rosto hooked a finger under my chin, forcing my eyes to meet his. "Cooper." He said finally. "I'm glad to know you're not just raising those beasts as pets. Pounce is more than enough for you; if you don't mind me saying so." He grinned. "Hearing the dead, that's a fine gift; one I wish the Rogue had at our disposal. Tell me, what's this birdie got to say?" He took the news in stride; as if I'd told him something as mundane as my middle name.

I felt as though an invisible weight had just lifted off my chest. He accepted me; with little to no uncertainty. Rosto was an odd buck; but I was beginning to see that he would be MY odd buck. I smiled and placed a grateful peck on his cheek (this time, I kept a firm hold on the pigeon).

I pulled back after a moment. "Her name is Anne. She worked for a man up at the palace; she says he's coming down to the Court tonight, and he plans to take the throne."

Rosto looked shocked for a brief second, and then he began to explain what he'd seen at court. Anne had been murdered by the same Shadow Snake that signed the doxie's bottle of laced hotblood. We stared at each other; absorbing our mutual information.

"Rosto…mayhap it's not my business--yet--but what happened with the doxie?" I asked cautiously. "The one with the laced hotblood?"

A blush colored Rosto's pale cheeks. "Normally, I never would have pursued her. But that bugnob Blasé was flirting with her; so I stole her away."

"Like a coin from his purse?" I asked skeptically.

He laughed. "No, even she wasn't puttock enough to be in his pants." He sobered. "I walked her home; but as soon as I saw the hotblood wine and the signature, I found a reason to run."

I nodded, mulling over the information. Brass's rider had no doubt worked for the same snake; Blasé's doxie--

I looked up, and noticed three rushers coming toward us. I elbowed Rosto, but he'd already seen them. A knife appeared in each of his hands, but I was loathe to let go of my bird. My baton was at my hip, but it was useless unless I picked it up.

"The King wants an audience. If you know what's good for you, you'll come quietly." The leader looked lean and tough, but I almost rolled my eyes at his Player's speech. Even in the plays, they come up with better threats than _that_.

I cast a nervous look at Rosto. I didn't want him to kill for my sake. His eyes met mine; he caught my silent plea. Reluctantly, he lowered his blades. "Remember what I promised, Cooper." He warned softly. I looked away, praying to the Goddess it would never come to that.

One rusher reached over to bind my arms behind my back; I struggled as I tried to keep a hold on Brass. I wanted to argue, to explain that the bird was important, but the words wouldn't come. I knew they would never believe me. Brass flapped away and watched us from the roof of a small bakery. Brass's rider screeched insults that only I could hear. I was impressed by her creativity, though it did nothing to help.

They found every one of Rosto's knives; even the one at his belt. I had two daggers and the baton, which they handled with an odd mixture of respect and surprise. They led us back through the streets. The Rushers were polite enough, but so were Rosto and I.

When we passed under the sign of the Dancing Dove, I wondered if I'd ever be able to look at my home the same way. I felt a shiver of dread as we walked through the door; they could have been leading me to my execution. But I was trusting a hunch; a theory I'd been putting together since Brass's rider had shared her information on her old cove.

I felt better as I walked past Blasé. He was alight with energy; not all of it good. He _was_ involved.

George stood at the base of his throne; he paced like a caged lion. His angry eyes caught mine; I stared him down coolly. Normally; it strikes a hard pain in my throat to look someone eye to eye; but not when I'm about to solve a case. I had my teeth set, and nothing—not even those angry hazel eyes—would ever make me let go.

"Thank you Swiftknife." George said curtly. He stopped pacing. "Put them in my office. Hashim?"

The man was unmistakably related to Blasé. It was in the set of his brow, his build, and his skin. However, unlike Blasé, this man was very unappealing. Scars crossed his dark skin, all across his body. His hands were gnarled and dirty; his lips were thin. His mouth was a barely hidden sneer.

Someone shoved Rosto and me into George's office. The Rogue rounded on me. His face was inches from mine. "Why? How? Speak up, or I'll move straight to spells. Why do you want to kill me? Why are you posing as my…my kin" He stumbled over what to call me, as Hashim had joined us in the room.

I took a step back; his breath had an unpleasant tinge of wine. "You've been drinking."1 I accused. I paled. If George had half the sense of Rosto, or even myself, he would never get drunk before interrogating a Rat. Mayhap he would have one cup of watered wine, but a regular cup wouldn't have affected him so. Unless Hashim had touched it.

"I never lied to you, George. I am exactly who I say I am, and I never tried to kill you. This man, on the other hand," I tried my best to point at Hashim with my elbow, "he's the Shadow Snake." My blues eyes burned straight into my six times great-grandson's, willing him to believe me.

"You know she isn't lying." Rosto added. "You didn't get where you are today without a skill for reading people."

"They're lying." Hashim hissed. Darkly, I noted how well the name "Shadow Snake" seemed to fit him. "The Scanran has wanted your position from the start, kill him; kill the girl."**  
**

* * *

**A/N: Oh damn am I terrible. It's a cliffy….sorry this update took so long, the next chapter will come much sooner; hopefully the showdown will be posted by Monday.  
**

**1) I struggled whether to include this plot device. George has the Sight; he should be able to see poisons. However, remember in LR, at George's desert home, Faithful was the only one who saw the poison in their food? I'm betting that, if a poison is herb-based; it's near impossible for George to detect. And unfortunately, Pounce/Faithful wasn't around to save him this time. **


	13. Rogues Dance at the Dove

It was Alanna's day off. Corram reclined in a chair and watched with amusement as Alanna swung his sword around. The lass would never quit. She was in the middle of a butterfly cut when Faithful leapt through her window. The cat's fur stuck out at odd angles, and he yowled urgently.

Alanna dropped the sword. "HE WHAT?!"

Faithful yowled again. Corram's eyes darted between the two, puzzled. Alanna looked up at her friend. "I have to go to Corus. George is in trouble." She said curtly. She picked up Lightening and flung her cloak around her shoulders.

Before Corram could protest, Alanna brushed past him and disappeared down the corridor. Faithful streaked after her; his tail flicked anxiously. With a grunt, Corram bent to retrieve his sword. The lass may have thought she could give him the slip, but the old solider knew more than she gave him credit for.

The Rogues held court at the Dancing Dove. Odds were ten to one that she would go there. Sighing, Corram set out after his impetuous charge.

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Alanna ran through the streets, pushing past those too slow to get out of her way. She was panting when she finally reached the Dancing Dove.

The Court's usual crowd was _un_usually subdued. Swiftknife and Scholar sat at the bar, drinking. Alanna raised an eyebrow as the men stood to say hello. "I heard something was—

"Somewhat's wrong with him." Scholar murmured. He beckoned for Alanna to come closer. She leaned in and the old drunk whispered, "The young'un by the door has an uncle who works with poisons."

Alanna glanced up at the dark-haired man. He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. His eyes raked through the crowd like a vulture's. Alanna grimaced. Scholar continued, "Hashim's in George's room now, most likely doing his job…if you take my meaning." A look of distaste crossed his grizzled features. "George's cousin, the lass dressed like a lad; we had ta bring her in for questioning. She and the Scanran are in there as well. We don't know who'll come out alive, lad."

"You suspect foul play?" Alanna asked.

Scholar smiled thinly. "My young man, you're in the Rogue Court. It's a matter of course." Scholar downed the last of his drink and slid the tankard back to the barkeep. Without a word, Old Solomon refilled the mug and slid it back. Scholar lifted the new drink and called out, "Long live the King!"

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**Rosto's POV**

Rosto was almost out of his bonds. The rushers had used rope, much to his delight. The knife at his belt had escaped their notice; if he could reach it in time…

"Kill him; kill the girl." The filthy old Bazhir hissed. George locked eyes with Rosto, and both men knew what was coming. With a tremendous yank, Rosto pulled free of his ropes and reached for his blade. George was almost on top of him before Rosto reached his weapon.

Rosto quickly back-pedaled toward the door, using the time to free the blade. He spun to the right as George's left blade sliced through empty air. Beka yelled something inarticulate as Hashim's filthy nails dug into her arm. Rosto snarled with frustration, he couldn't help her and defend himself at the same time. He locked blades with her six-times great grandson, and each man strained to overpower the other. George swiped with his second knife, and Rosto caught the George's arm at the wrist and held it away from himself.

With a mocking grin, Rosto freed his blade. With a deft twist, Rosto pinned George's arm behind him.

Slippery as butter, with a move Rosto couldn't follow, George slipped out of Rosto's hold. However, Rosto still managed to kick George's feet out from under him. The younger Rogue let out a soft 'whooph' as he landed, but he slapped the ground and rolled away before Rosto could press the advantage.

George hopped back to his feet and kicked a chair toward Rosto. The wooden legs screeched across the floor, and Rosto had no choice but to jump completely over it. His backside landed on the seat of the chair, but he quickly stood again. Involuntarily, George let out a low whistle of appreciation.

"Rosto!" Beka yelled. Rosto looked back and saw that his puppy had freed herself. She crouched behind George's desk, and she had a knee pressed firmly into Hashim's back. The medicine man's nose was becoming acquainted with the dusty office floor.

Rosto looked away as George's second blade nearly caught his ear. "You idiot." Rosto grunted. "We're not the enemy, Mirthos curse you. Your man over there has you under a sp--"

"Free me, majesty. I am valuable to your Court." Hashim forced the words out before Beka shoved his head back down to the ground.

Suddenly emotionless, George strode toward Beka. Rosto panicked and grabbed a handful of George's shirt.

George spun around and his knife sliced into Rosto's bicep. The Scanran bit back a cry of pain and stumbled backwards. Distracted, George advanced toward Rosto again, intent on finishing the fight.

Rosto's jaw locked. The time for fair play was over. He feigned a high cut at George's cheek, but checked the swipe early and instead the knife scraped over George's stomach.

A miracle, some unexplainable force must have warned George of Rosto's aim. The young Rogue stepped back, but not quick enough to completely escape the blade's tip. Blood trickled through the new hole in his shirt.

The men glared at each other, each refusing to acknowledge his wounds. Rosto wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, and George absently scratched his nose in an attempt at nonchalance.

"Rosto Piper, stop fighting your six-times-great-grandson!"

Both men spun around in shock. Beka stood and planted her hands on her hips. Her icy eyes crackled with frustration and anger. A pigeon landed on the windowsill and squalled angrily to underscore her point. Rosto glanced back to a now unconscious Hashim. Then his eyes quickly returned to Beka.

"What?" Rosto croaked. He noticed that George's body seemed to go a little limp.

"First," Beka said crisply. She crossed the room and grabbed George's wrist. The pigeon, Brass, flew in the window and landed on her outstretched arm. The Coopers listened intently to a voice Rosto couldn't hear.

"Impossible." George muttered. But he seemed to be trying to convince himself. Beka released him and stepped back. "Impossible…" George repeated. Nevertheless, Rosto knew the man was coming to his senses. Like a child waking from a bad dream.

At the same moment, George and Beka each ran a hand helplessly over their faces. The pigeon flapped away. Somehow, its flight seemed lighter.

Beka coughed, recovered and folded her arms across her chest. She studied George with her sharp glims. Then she turned back to Rosto. "_Look_ at him." She pleaded. Her eyes were over bright with tears. Whether they were tears of happiness, sorrow, or exhaustion, Rosto wasn't sure.

"He's not just my descendant, he's yours." Her voice was barely above a whisper. Something about that admission frightened her; Rosto could see the anxiety in her tanned face.

A stunned silence fell over the room. Rosto was frozen where he stood. His puppy. His Terrier. His future. She stood weakly, drained from the fight. 'We need to have another talk.' He realized.

Before he could say anything, the red-noll from the upper crust stumbled in. Pounce sat at her ankles and meowed loudly.

**Beka's POV**

I had to stop the coves from fighting. Hashim was easy enough to hobble, but I've never been in a room with two Rogues in their prime. I hope never to repeat the experience. I saw bits of their sparring from behind the desk; at times they moved faster than Ahuda. If I didn't see it, I would never have believed it possible.

As I watched, my nob put together the last pieces of the puzzle. They were too much the same. I played the only card I had.

I admitted something I'd known all along. Rosto is George's six times great grandfather. I am destined to have descendants with Rosto. The thought terrifies me, not only because he is the Rogue, but because he's Rosto. I don't believe he is the type to settle down and raise younglings with me. I will have to do it alone.

Alanna came in seconds after they finished fighting. Pounce followed and began to lecture about human stupidity. I half listened as I pictured the rest of my life. My child would be raised in the middle of Lower City, with a Dog for a mother. Mayhap Tansey would help…

I looked up to see purple fire pouring over George. Alanna was lecturing too. "The spell was weak, though that also helped make it nearly undetectable. He must have used some sort of supplement—

"Wine." Rosto finished heavily. "Blase helped distribute it, so did Anne."

George nodded; he had heard Anne's testimony with his own mind.

"You'll be fine." Alanna said crisply. "Lie down and let me heal that cut. You're lucky he didn't gut you like the crooked old fish you are." Her tone was disgusted, but she grinned, and her lips trembled. She was worried about him. I tucked away a smile. George had a chance with her.

"Blasé." Rosto said suddenly.

"Pox and murrain." I muttered. "The puttock could be halfway through the unicorn district by now."

Rosto ran for the door and I followed at his heels.


	14. Scholar's Lesson in Manners

To the casual observer, it appeared that Scholar was well into his cups that day. Only Solomon knew the old foist had switched to barley water hours ago. From his vantage point at the bar, Scholar had watched the day unfold. He knew Hashim was up to something, and Blasé was undoubtedly on the inside.

Alan rushed in; his violet eyes were feverish with worry. Scholar noted the malice in Blasé's gaze as the fool spied on their conversation. Scholar knew it was time to act. Alan crossed the room, and headed for George's office.

Blasé moved as if to follow the boy, and Scholar called, "Blase. Come here and share some thoughts with an old man." Scholar beckoned for the lad to come sit beside him at the bar. Blasé scanned the crowd once more, but it would be suspicious if he refused.

Scholar gestured for Solomon to pour Blasé a beer. "To your youth, lad." Scholar slurred the words appropriately, and thrust the drink toward the boy. Blasé looked distastefully down at the mug, but Swiftknife gave the boy a dangerous look.

"It'd be rude to refuse." Marek warned.

Scholar grinned vacantly and lifted his own mug. "Long live King Roald." The room erupted in a chorus of "Long live the king," and Blasé slowly pretended to take a sip of the drink. Scholar grinned and sloppily spun toward the crowd. He swung his arms out, as if directing a troupe of Players.

When Blasé turned his head toward Solomon, Scholar took the opportunity. Quickly, he swung his arm back around, and his heavy tankard caught Blasé in the temple.

The boy spluttered and clutched his ringing ear. Scholar was the epitome of apologetic. "My lad, forgive an old man and his clumsiness. I _meant_ to do _this_." Scholar grabbed a handful of Blasé's thick mop of hair, and slammed the traitor's head into the bar. Blasé slumped in his chair, unconscious.

Lightfingers approached the bar shook his head mock-regretfully. "You are a belligerent drunk, Scholar." He admonished.

The older man grinned and hiccupped.

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**Beka's**** POV**

Rosto and I tumbled out of George's office, our necks craned to find some sign of Blasé. I caught sight of his dark nob, resting chin first on the bar table. Scholar sat with one arm wrapped around our unconscious Rat. With his free hand, Scholar raised a tankard and saluted us.

"Never doubted ye for a minute, little miss. You're a Cooper, by Kyprioth's left nostril."

The Rushers in the room cheered heartily, the bar shook with their noise. I'll never know what took place there whilst Rosto and I were in George's office.

Rosto grinned and turned to look at me. I quivered, relieved and scared at the same moment. Rosto wrapped an arm around my waist and led me out the front door and onto the streets.

"Breathe, Cooper, just breathe." His large hands rested on my shoulders; he peered down at me with his black eyes.

I took his advice and slowed my thoughts along with my breath. He waited patiently, silent.

"I wasn't lying." I said finally.

"Do you _ever_ lie, Cooper?" Rosto asked sardonically. I smiled in spite of myself. "But you're worried about something." Rosto prompted.

"You." I admitted. "Us." I amended. "Being a Dog is all I want to do, even you can't change that."

"And I have a responsibility to my people." Rosto added softly. "But if Kora and Ersken are able—

"What about Aniki?" I asked miserably. "She's my friend, but," I blushed furiously and forced the words out. "I'm not going to share a man, either." I waited with baited breath, ready for him to make a prideful retort.

Rosto smiled, but his answer was sincere. "She'll understand. She was the one who pointed out my cold heart was melting. When we get back to our time, Aniki will be Queen soon, and will have her choice of free coves."

I felt my heart stutter; he made it seem simple. "I'm not ready for children or real canoodling yet." I warned him.

He kissed my forehead, unusually tender. My nose buried into the base of his neck, his arms wrapped securely around me. I don't know how long we stood that way.

Pounce found us and let his annoyance be known to both of us. 'I leave you alone for one afternoon…two-leggers.' He didn't sound truly displeased, he let me pick him up and settle him on my shoulder. His scratchy tongue scraped over my face, and I giggled.

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**Late Evening:**

Again, Scholar hoisted his mug in the air, hiccupped, and took a long sip. He was back to the _real_ stuff, on George's tab, no less. He smacked his lips happily and scratched his soggy beard.

There was a sharp tap on his shoulder. Scholar turned and nearly fell out of his chair. Muttering, he looked around for the interloper.

The man was ancient, with glittering green eyes and a thin white beard. Scholar pegged him as Yamani because of his skin tone and dress. But something about the man seemed…inhuman. Scholar let out a long belch. He was drunk and he knew it. He stared at the old-timer expectantly, waiting for the man to speak.

"Do you know where I might find Beka Cooper?" The old man's voice was sharp and precise. His tone carried a fair amount of disgust, and his eyes crackled with impatience.

"Wennnt chasin' afta….Blaaaa," Scholar burped again. He shrugged. "Talk ta Sweeftnate." He reached for his mug again.

**88888888888**

Beka's POV

The rest of the day passed in a pleasant blur. Rosto and I made moon-eyes at each other as we wandered through Lower City. We stopped for lunch—at a different tavern—and Rosto paid for the meal.

I was able to ignore a pickpocket, a minnow anyway. Rosto laughed at the look on my face; it wasn't easy. Pounce mhrrred cat-talk; either he didn't want me to understand, or I was too distracted to listen.

Rosto does have a sweet side. He pulled out my chair at the tavern; he held the door open as we left. I don't usually think of Rosto as well mannered, but I'm sure there are many things I've not thought of.

Pounce jumped into my arms, his talk was getting more urgent. "Pay attention, Fishpuppy! Dragons do not like to be kept waiting."

"You found Songwind?" Rosto asked. Just as he'd done with the pigeons, Rosto took Pounce's ability in stride. "Here little King. Lead us away." Rosto carefully took Pounce out of my arms and set the cat on the ground. Pounce shook himself, cleaned his ear quickly for good measure, and trotted off toward the Olrun River.


	15. In Rosto's Dreams

The Cat dragged the mortals to their meeting place at the River Olrun. Fog swirled around them; the only sounds were that of their footsteps and the rushing water. Songwind awaited in his human form.

Beka bowed to the dragon, and Rosto was quick to copy her gesture. Songwind looked down at the Cat. **How do you propose we begin?** He inquired. He spoke to the Cat alone.

_'Leave their minds to me. You handle the travel.'_ The Cat ordered briskly.

**Is this fated to be naught but a Midsummer Night's Dream?** Songwind queried.

The Cat chuckled. '_That play has not been written yet_' He admonished.

Songwind grinned and summoned the spell.

888888

Morning after Midsummer, year 246

I awoke this morning and my nob was buzzing with dreams. Somewhat about a six-times great grandson, a new shadow snake…and a few soul-bearing talks with Rosto. I groaned and promised myself I would stop drinking all together. I put the dreams out of my mind as Pounce jumped onto my bed and proceeded to wash my face. I let him clean for a few minutes before I got up and gave myself a proper washing.

I was preparing a load of laundry for Kora when there was a knock outside my door. I opened it, and I saw that Rosto looked as exhausted as I. "Where were you last night?" I asked. Truth be told, I couldn't remember what I'd done either.

Rosto rubbed his eyes and shook his nob. "I was hoping you could tell me, Cooper. I've just had the oddest…dream." He frowned. Somewhat told me he was looking for answers from me.

"Stop drinking afore bed, my friend." I advised. "Ale does strange things to us all."

Rosto sighed. "It wasn't the ale. I'm not ducknob enough to get drunk these days. And I'm not sure it was a dream. Beka—

"Keep dreaming Rosto." I cut in harshly. "Whatever you think _might_ have happened between us…it didn't."

He raised an eyebrow at my heated response. I blushed and realized too late that wasn't where his questions were going. "Cooper," he murmured. "Come here."

His lips met mine, and I tasted that familiar sweetness. A cool, distant part of my nob noted he certainly hadn't been drinking.

He pulled back after a moment and smirked at me. He knew I had melted, and he was enjoying the sight. His vainness chilled my temper quicker than Hasfush's strongest breath.

I did it without thinking. My fist shot out and caught his big nose. There was a loud crack, and I knew I'd broken it. I nursed my sore knuckles and stood over him. "I'm my own mot, Rosto of the Rogue. You may be able to steal from the King's treasury, but you stay away from me and mine." I stepped back into my room and shut the door behind me.

Pounce leapt up onto my desk and began to clean his whiskers. '_He can't steal what you give him freely.__'_ My dumpling-meat furball remarked.

I ignored him and opened my window. The pigeons came pouring in, and I sighed. I felt vaguely guilty about breaking Rosto's nose. I suppose I should make it up to him. I'll send him some flowers.


End file.
